


Death Takes A Holiday: Cocaine in Montreal

by LyraNgalia, rude_not_ginger



Series: Death Takes A Holiday [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Assassination Plot(s), Assassins & Hitmen, Cocaine, F/M, Fake Character Death, Fantasizing, Food Kink, Food Sex, Gen, Great Hiatus, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Montreal, Oral Sex, Pillow Talk, Post-Reichenbach, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-21 17:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_not_ginger/pseuds/rude_not_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being made aware of Irene Adler's continued existence, Mycroft Holmes reports her death. But questions remain: Is Irene Adler actually dead? Sebastian Moran saved her life in San Salvador, to what end? Does Sherlock Holmes believe his brother's report? And beyond it all, the question remains: what are Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler to each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Before the Storm Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Please see [_Death Takes A Holiday: In the Shadow of the Black Mountain_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/694742) for notes/explanations on the peculiarities of this fic's writing style.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler never made it into surgery in Nassau, dying of complications of her gunshot wound, or so Mycroft Holmes reported. But can Irene Adler ever really die in Sherlock Holmes' mind? Is the elder Holmes hoping the news will bring Sherlock back to Baker Street, and where exactly is Irene Adler? In a shallow grave in Nassau, or somewhere else, misbehaving?

The surgery was routine, successful. The small caliber bullet had ripped through the muscles of her leg, causing considerable pain and damage, but little of it irreparable. The clinic in San Salvador had done its work well despite her unexpected route to Nassau, and despite the traces of painkiller left in her system. The surgeon pronounced the surgery a success after an hour and a half and another three units of blood, and Irene Adler had been quietly transferred to another hospital. She was kept sedated for three days; the individual who had her admitted, one Mycroft Holmes, had claimed that she was a risk to herself, and between the bullet wound, malnutrition and dehydration, the healing hairline fractured rib (several weeks old), the older stitches on her forearm, the scar about a year old at her side, and the like, the hospital staff could believe it.  
  
Still, eventually, she had to be woken up, if nothing else but to allow the doctor overseeing her treatment to see for himself if she were as much of a danger to herself as was claimed. The sedative administered intravenously was stopped, and within two hours, Irene Adler found herself swimming back to consciousness.  
  
The first thing she saw was the hospital ceiling, painted a dull beige, and textured differently from what she'd remembered when they'd wheeled her in before consciousness had faded. The second thing she noticed was that the constant pain she'd been in since Osesina was gone, that what pain was left was no longer sharp, like fire and ice along her nerves, but dull, manageable, like an echo or a whisper when before there had been screaming. Irene turned in her hospital bed, feeling a stiffness in her neck, not from exertion but from lack thereof. From that simple fact she realized she'd been unconscious and immobile for days at least.  
  
On her left, there was a sealed window, tropical sun spilling through the glass like liquid gold. She turned to her right, expecting Sherlock Holmes waiting. She had, after all, in a moment of supreme weakness, asked him to stay.  
  
Instead, she found the elder Holmes brother, his attention riveted to the screen of his mobile phone. “The anesthesiologist expected you would wake up within the last ten minutes,” he said conversationally. “He was only five minutes off.” Irene frowned and winced as she instinctively tried to raise herself on her elbows and the motion jarred the IV attached to her arm. Mycroft looked up, then, and set his phone down. “He isn't here, Miss Adler. I suggest you hold still.”  
  
Irene forced the wince and any other expression from her face and gave the elder Holmes brother a flat look. “So that you can have a moment of privacy with which to do what, Mr. Holmes? Be the overprotective older brother? Don't waste either of our times, we both know I've heard every threat you can think of.”  
  
“He thinks you're dead.” There was little emotion in his voice at that, the words matter of fact, though Irene thought she saw the ghost of haughty pride in his expression. Mycroft returned his attention to his mobile's screen. “As I'd prefer it if you didn't disabuse him of that belief, I'm willing to make a few concessions to convince you it is in your best interests to remain even deader than you had been before.” A thin, humourless smile, and Irene wondered idly if Mycroft expected her to be cowed more by the threat or the way he delivered it. Neither did, but she wondered all the same.  
  
But his next words surprised her. “For one third the concessions you demanded in our last meeting, including protection. That should be more than enough resources for you to convince Sebastian Moran that you would be a... more reliable employer than the late Jim Moriarty.”  
  
She didn't stare, no, but she did study him at the offer. “Your brother's ignorance is more important than national security, Mr. Holmes?” she answered, choosing her words carefully. “That's positively sentimental.”  
  
Mycroft waved a negligent hand, as if waving away the barbed insult. “You recognized my desire to protect Sherlock as a weakness before, Miss Adler. I'm offering you the opportunity to take advantage of it. Call it submission, if you'd like.”  
  
She arched an eyebrow. “And what contingency do you have in place to ensure that I do take your offer? The promise that if I don't the deception will forcibly become not a deception?”  
  
His lips thinned. “We are both well aware that there would be no such thing. That you would refuse to go quietly and he would find any hint of actual violence against you.” A distasteful look crossed Mycroft's face, and Irene wondered just how much of the last few months the elder Holmes had discovered during her recovery. Whether or not he knew of Kotor, of Hong Kong, of London. Of the lengths they have gone for each other. Or perhaps San Salvador was obvious enough. “You have nothing to lose, and quite a bit to gain, after all. And time enough to consider the offer. The doctor expects to discharge you in another three to four days.”  
  
A faint, cold smile touched Irene's lips, and she closed her eyes, settling back in the hospital bed. “With all due respect, Mr. Holmes,” she answered, sarcasm obvious in her voice. “Get out.”  
  
***  
  
True to the doctor's prediction, one Irene Norton is discharged from Princess Margaret Hospital in Nassau seven days after her admission for post-surgery recovery. A full eight days after being shot in San Salvador, Irene Adler arrives in Montreal.


	2. Quite This Close to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Irene Adler died, Sherlock Holmes took it poorly, refusing to eat or to sleep. The second time she dies, it is with his assistance. But now it is the third time Irene Adler has died, and it is by Mycroft Holmes' hand. How will Sherlock's reaction to the Woman's death, now that she has wormed her way so far beneath his skin, affect his reaction when the dead rise and he comes face to face with the ghost of Irene Adler?

Sherlock did not stay after hearing of the Woman's death. He wanted to be away from Mycroft, he wanted to be away from all of it. He had to---he had to get away from it.  
  
He took a plane to Jacksonville, Florida. He took a bus to Washington, DC. It was not so much that the trip was a blur, as that it did not matter. He did not sleep. His fingers moved as though they were tracing out notes on the arm of his violin. The brief stop-off in Georgia proved fruitful when it came to drug access. He could procure alcohol and cocaine at exceedingly low prices. Something about the South, he was told. He got a hotel in Washington DC, on the southeast side. Not the best of places, but he figured it would be dangerous enough that should Mycroft look for him, he might not bother to dirty himself.  
  
He dyed his hair black. He drank half a bottle of bourbon. He smoked. And smoked. He cooked the cocaine. The stimulant bubbled in the spoon and sat, warm and ready, in the syringe.  
  
He couldn't shoot it. He didn't want to be stimulated; his mind was already boiling over. The Woman was gone. Pain seemed to run through him, and that did not make sense. He ached in a way that was very different from the thought of John Watson marrying and leaving him. It was a permanence, a sense of complete absence. She had become part of his life and he _liked_ that. He enjoyed it.  
  
 _Stay with me._ She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to be there. What if Sherlock had stayed with her in her operating theater? What if---no. No. "What if"s were idiotic and complete wastes of time. There was no reason for it, because there was no chance that he could _ever_ go back and do those things. He took another drink of the bourbon and watched the syringe as the liquid cooled and the cocaine began to settle.  
  
Mycroft wouldn't lie about the Woman's death, he decided. He made John lie about her before because he was _worried_ about Sherlock's mental health. Lying now, no. No, that wouldn't have happened. The question was really whether or not Mycroft had actually been involved in her demise. The most painful thing was understanding that he could not kill Mycroft if he was involved. Not for any sense of sentiment about his brother, mind. He simply did not have the ability to get that close. Mycroft was too clever.  
  
Sherlock passed out for one day and then got on another bus in the DC Chinatown for Montreal. The syringe remained back in the hotel. The bourbon was put into his backpack. By the time it has been a week since the Woman's death, he has a new bottle of bourbon and a decision that he would finish what he'd started. Wipe out what was left of Jim's web, go back to London. Exist. (Living was really a matter of cellular cycling, after all. Emotions were irrelevant.)  
  
He checks into the Place d'Armes. They look at him with no small amount of disdain, considering his wild, unkempt hair, his stained overshirt, and the fact that he smells like he hasn't bothered showering or doing much more than drinking, traveling, and preparing syringes of cocaine that he has yet to inject.  
  
"Reservation," he says. "Norton. I should also have a package."

 

She rents a shabby hotel room for three hours upon landing in Montreal, and dyes her hair dark brown, the shade it had been before the deep red, before the light brown-blonde in Kotor, the same shade as her growing roots. She trades the secondhand clothes the hospital had provided for tailored designer, returns to blood red nails and lips, rather than the subdued disguises she'd worn like a second skin. The still-healing leg wound, however, refuses to allow for stiletto heels, to her eternal annoyance, and Irene settles for flats, though luckily the season apparently provided far more fashionable and expensive choices than before.  
  
Four hours in Montreal, and Irene Adler stepped into the lobby of the Place d'Armes, every inch obviously, brazenly herself.  
  
It takes twenty minutes to convince a clerk to allow her access to the hotel's systems for the day of her surgery, and she finds the booking for a couple under the surname Norton. Another few minutes shows her that no individual by that name had yet to claim the reservation.  
  
That was unsurprising, though it made the idea of finding Sherlock Holmes significantly more difficult. She retreats to the hotel lobby, turning possibilities over in her mind, and has nearly decided to claim the reservation herself when she hears him, his voice gruff with disuse and alcohol, at the counter behind her, demanding the reservation under the name Norton.  
  
She listens for the disdainful and concerned concierge to reluctantly give him a room number, notes it, and waits for him to stumble away before she rises, and heads to the elevator.

 

He can almost swear he sees her, as he stands at the concierge's desk. Her hair, perfect. Her lips and nails, blood red like he remembers from their time in London.  
  
Sentiment.  
  
He takes the package, wrapped in waxy brown paper, and half-stumbles towards the lift. He needs to sleep, he thinks, but sleeping isn't what he wants to do here in Montreal. He has someone to kill, and then he has to move on. Move on, always moving. The more he moves, perhaps the more he'll feel like Sherlock Holmes again.  
  
No.  
  
No, he doesn't think he'll go back to being Sherlock Holmes for a long time.  
  
He presses the button to head upstairs.

 

She makes it to the correct floor first, perhaps due to her ability to put one foot in front of the other without risking falling head over heels at the moment. And passes the room in question, instead taking a turn down another hall, far enough to be out of sight but not out of earshot. She waits until she's certain she's heard him stumble against the door of the room, fight the key, and the door close behind him before she approaches and knocks.  
  
Three sharp raps.

 

He drops the heavy backpack aside and tosses the parcel onto the bed. The room is luxurious. Even the hand soap screams elegance. He'd picked this room specifically for that reason. The Woman would've liked it. He winces at that thought. How disgustingly sentimental. "The Woman would've liked it". He sounds like John lamenting over his old girlfriends.  
  
The knock on the door startles him. Mycroft? No. No, he'd have seen him. Room service? Too soon.  
  
Sherlock heads back to the bag and reaches in, acquiring the gun that the Woman no longer had any need of back in Nassau. He steps over to the door and looks into the peephole. He can swear he sees the top of the Woman's head, and he winces again. Sleep. He needs sleep. Less alcohol. Another attempt with the cocaine.  
  
" _C'est occupe_ ," he says.

 

She rolls her eyes at the response. Stubborn. Not high, not _yet_ , at least, judging by the belligerence in his voice; it's different from how he had sounded in Las Vegas, with cocaine in his blood. He had been sharper then, on edge.  
  
She sighs, and pulls out the mobile she'd pick pocketed from the hotel clerk earlier. Irene leans against the door's threshold and types in a number from memory, and a familiar message.  
  
`I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.`

 

His phone goes off. It's obvious that whoever is standing outside has sent him a text message. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the mobile, glancing at the number (Canadian, local, not one he recognizes) and the very familiar message.  
  
"No." He isn't aware he's said it until it comes out of his mouth. Who? Who would do this? One of Mycroft's people? One of Jim's? He doesn't care who it is, he feels the insult bubbling up in him. He's so _angry_ , and the emotion comes without warning. Angry at the insult, angry at _them_ using _her_ words. Over their time together, she became part of his mind, and therefore the insult also is directed to him.  
  
He steps back and pulls the door open sharply, gun out, leveled at the person waiting there's head.


	3. Who'll Give You Time to Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bourbon and grief course through Sherlock Holmes' veins when Irene Adler rises from the dead, worse for wear with only a treated gunshot wound to show for it. But will her presence bring him a measure of clarity, or will his loathing of dreaded sentiment force him to do something drastic and regrettable?

Her eyes widen ever so slightly when he opens the door and there is a very familiar gun pointed at her head. Irene steps back, and raises her hands to him, dropping the purloined mobile to the carpet. The gesture exposes clearly the healing scar on her forearm from broken pottery shards from a statue used as a weapon in Las Vegas. She sweeps him with a single glance, noticing the bloodshot eyes, the dark circles that spoke of too little sleep, and the way his jaw is tensed.   
  
She tries to keep her voice steady, calm, but there is the faintest waver in it, though perhaps that is understandable, for most people, given she had been shot with the same gun little more than a week ago. "I left you a body to find," she says carefully. "Tell me your brother at least did you the same courtesy."

 

She looks pristine. Her hair, her makeup. He's left to wonder if all the times he thought he saw her in the corner of his eye, he did. Mycroft had been to see her, that much is obvious. She isn't afraid of being Irene Adler anymore. Sherlock is left to pick at the pieces of her outfit and hair and makeup and try to determine whether or not she knew he'd be told she was dead when she went into that operating theater.  
  
He doesn't lower the gun. No, in fact, he is more than a little tempted to pull the trigger as he stares at her. It would, after all, make the last week's worth of grief _mean something_. And perhaps then, he would have control over this. Control over it ending, at the very least. There would be no fear of it being over, fear of it going sour. It would already be over.  
  
Instead, he finds himself speaking again. "Not this time," he says. "I think he was more concerned that I would want to _stay_." The last word is harsh, because if she did know, then there are few in the world more cruel.

 

She almost flinches at his words, at the reminder of her own sentiment. But he is still holding the gun, if anything, his grip had tightened, and she is far too aware that he is not in any state to be calm or rational.   
  
"I wish you had." She hates admitting it, but she hates the idea of being shot again even more, and with the way he had the weapon aimed it was far less likely she'd survive if he chose to pull the trigger. A pointed glance down the hall. "I've already had one metaphorical gun held to my head this week courtesy of your brother, and I'd rather not repeat the experience."  
  
A pause. "Please."

 

Metaphorical gun. That is very Mycroft, Sherlock can't help but think. This whole situation practically screams Mycroft. Except now. Except her, standing here with him. He needs to know why, and the gun won't fix it, no matter how much it will alleviate his anxiety.  
  
He lets a breath out of his nose and lowers the gun. He turns from her, walking back into the hotel room. He is unkempt and wild, where the room is like the Woman: Pristine to the point of absurdity.  
  
"You must have been just released," he says. "Cross-country travel the day afterwards. Can't have been recommended by your doctor."

 

When he finally lowers the gun and turns away, tension leeches from her spine and Irene visibly relaxes as she follows him into the room. His disheveled state had been unlike his usual meticulous (if sometimes uncaring) self, but the contrast between him and the untouched, pristine hotel room is striking.   
  
She shuts the door behind her with a solid click, and leans against it, watching him with wary concern. She isn't certain what she had expected. Perhaps the litany John Watson had recited back in Battersea Station. _He's writing sad music, doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, barely talks... only to correct the television. I'd say he was heartbroken but he's Sherlock, he does all that anyway..._  
  
Perhaps she had expected something like Las Vegas, when he had gone seeking distraction, gone sharp and poisonous and focused. She hadn't expected this, hadn't expected liquor and anger and visceral _grief_.   
  
"I saw no reason to trust a doctor employed by someone with ulterior motives," she says simply.

 

He unties his scarf and pulls off the hoodie. He realizes, a bit late, that he looks awful and probably is at the most unattractive he's been in recent months. It doesn't matter around her, he tells himself. He should be angry, not concerned with appearances. He looks down at his arms. Still free of fresh track marks, so this is not a hallucination. She is, most definitely, alive.  
  
He has the oddest desire to hold her. He doesn't, of course.  
  
"Did he offer you money or position to spy on me?" he asks. Money, he imagines, would be of no consequence to the Woman. Position, however---he wonders if she would've denied Mycroft based on sentiment, or more because of her distaste for Mycroft Holmes.

 

"Why would he offer when he knows he can't trust a single thing I would tell him?" she counters.  
  
He turns to look down at himself, and she takes the opportunity to turn away, to run her fingers along the expensive wallpaper, the inoffensive but well-chosen artwork hanging on the wall. A smile tugs at her lips; she likes the hotel and its understated but obvious elegance. She crosses the room and stands in front of the window, looking out at Montreal, and it is obvious that she fits here. "He did offer protection and resources if I played along with his deception."

 

"If you pretended to be dead," he reiterates. He is reminded very vividly of his earlier thought about killing his brother. He represses this thought. More important things to care about.  
  
He picks up the parcel from the bed, tearing it open and glancing in at the contents. Anything to not look at her, to not remember just how much very _ordinary_ pain he felt moments earlier.  
  
"Why say no?" he asks.

 

Her attention remains fixed outside, to the sparse skyline and the bustle of people and traffic below. Her eyes follow a young mother, dreadfully bored and frustrated, as she hurried along the sidewalk, dragging a small boy with her.   
  
There are a lot of things she could say. That what Mycroft Holmes had offered isn't enough. That she _likes_ being Irene Adler. That she wants to be precisely where she is now. But they are defined as much by as what wasn't said as what was, and so she simply answers,  
  
"Death doesn't suit me."  
  
Nor did it him.

 

"No, it doesn't," he agrees. "But you've worn that outfit three times now." And two of those three times, he believed it for a week. The first, his newfound sentiment left him hollow, aching, stalking John to make certain he wouldn't die as well. This time...this time he's been left in such a completely ordinary state of grief that it's downright embarrassing.  
  
He lets the object fall from the parcel into his hand. It's the jeweled ring with the purple stone. The one that the Woman plundered so very long ago, now. The only thing he thought to ask the girl in San Salvador to send.  
  
"Sentiment doesn't suit me, either," he says.

 

She smiles wryly to herself at his response, and continues tracking the woman and child until they turn the corner and are lost to her sight. A completely arbitrary choice of someone, something to watch, to keep from wanting to turn around. But they are out of sight, so she turns and leans against the window to watch him examine whatever it is in his hand.  
  
"Would you rather I have taken his offer?"

 

"No." The word comes out quickly but quietly. No, he would prefer to know she's still in the world, even if he knows this is all just a sign that their holiday is coming to an end, and soon. It would have been over in either case, at least this way he knows she's out there. The only person in the world that can make him feel this level of sentimental.  
  
"He wouldn't have honored it anyway," he says. "Knowing Mycroft's penchant for abusing those he believes he dictates."  
  
He steps towards her then, reaching out his hand for her wrist, to feel the pulse there. Alive.

 

There is no reason to let him find her pulse; no game to be played, no reason to when it is painfully obvious how sentiment has caught them in each other's orbits. But his fingertips are cool against her wrist, and she does not pull away.  
  
Her eyes meet his, and she does not look away this time. Does not turn to find another idiot to watch in his meandering way down the streets of Montreal.  
  
"It would have been entertaining to disabuse him of that particular notion, at least."

 

"Yes," he agrees. "It would have."  
  
Just as Sherlock enjoyed knowing his brother would worry as he vanished for a week. He needed to expel his anger at the situation in some way. Alcohol and fleeing seemed the easiest.  
  
He is again reminded of the---it's not _pain_ , not exactly, but _anxiety_ of not knowing when this will end. He doesn't know how and he isn't entirely certain how much more he will change before it does. Love is a dangerous disadvantage.  
  
He releases her wrist, but presses the jeweled ring into her palm before he steps away.

 

She doesn't have to look to know what he's pressed into her hand; the weight and shape of the ring is familiar in her palm, and without hesitation she slips it back on the fourth finger of her right hand. It feels right there.  
  
Irene leans against the window, her silhouette sharply outlined by the cool light streaming in, but she doesn't return her attention to the street or the city skyline. "I didn't expect the bourbon."

 

"Nor did I," he admits. "It calmed my nerves once when I was truly afraid." He sniffs, as though disgusted by admitting that he was, at some point, truly afraid. "I thought it might work on other extreme emotions."  
  
He doesn't bother saying which emotions those are. He pulls out the bourbon and picks up two of the crystal glasses on the side table. He pours a few fingers for the both of them.  
  
He takes a swallow of his drink.  
  
"If we get you situated into Jim's web, turn it into yours, you'll make certain that the assassins that had been following Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John won't return."

 

She isn't surprised, not really, that he knows exactly what she's trying to do. Upon reflection, later, her ego will no doubt be bruised by the fact, but at the moment she simply takes the other glass with a single clink of crystal against wood.   
  
"They'll be dead," she confirms, taking a sip of the bourbon and wincing at the harsh burn. "I only play games with willing participants, Mr. Holmes."

 

"Cause problems for my brother, no doubt," he says, raising an eyebrow.

 

She mirrored his raised eyebrow. "Is that supposed to dissuade me?"

 

"Not even remotely," he replies. He puts the glass down a bit more harshly than he'd probably intended. Emotions again, running up through his veins. Anger. Betrayal. Because that is what it feels like.  
  
"He's far more observant than I am," Sherlock says, voice low. "If lazier. He must've---he would have _known_ \---"  
  
But caring is not an advantage, Mycroft would say. The advantage would be knowing where his little brother was and anticipating a quick return to London with his distraction "gone". Of course. Sherlock's mind was full of little information he could push in the Woman's direction once she was in control of Jim's web. Ways to hurt the only thing Mycroft ever cared about: His government.

 

She swirls the amber liquid in her glass, seemingly idle, as she studies him. "You're planning something."  
  
It isn't a question.

 

"Obviously," Sherlock replies. "You'll get what you want, I'll get what I want, and somewhere in there, Mycroft will learn that lying to me is only important about certain subjects."  
  
The Woman was not one of them. She, like John Watson, were Sherlock's, in his head. Mycroft invaded that when he lied about her death.  
  
He takes out his cigarettes and moves to light one.  
  
"I would have stayed," he says, his voice quiet. It's a stark contrast from the anger in his voice only seconds earlier.

 

At his words, she finally looks away, back down at the glass, and in one impulsive move downs the rest of the harsh, cheap bourbon. It is only after she's drained the glass that Irene remembers the last thing she'd eaten had been a half-hearted attempt at a meal on the airplane.  
  
Still, the alcohol burns a warm path down her throat, and she leans against the cool, smooth glass, the empty crystal tumbler in her hand as she looked up at the ceiling. "I know. I expected you when I woke up."

 

She knew. He has reached the point in their affair in which she has worked out what he'll do when he still isn't entirely certain. At what point did this happen?  
  
"I'm glad you did," he says. A pause. "Wake up."  
  
He decides that if he stays in this room any longer, he's going to do something with the dreaded sentimental nature attached to it. Something stupid and emotional, like kiss her simply because she's alive. The entire idea seems rather silly, because there are far better reasons to kiss someone, particularly the Woman, and he's been involved in those situations before. Just kissing her for existing is idiotic, and she'd probably see it as such.  
  
He turns and moves into the washroom without another word.


	4. Time to Find Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the bourbon and the toxin they call sentiment, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes are painfully aware of just how dangerous the game they play is. But will they accept a stalemate in mutual weakness, or will they insist on denial?

If he asked, she would have said she'd known what he would do before he realized it from the day she'd left her cameraphone on the mantlepiece of 221B Baker Street. But he does not ask and she does not say.  
  
She remains exactly where she is as he walks away, and does not move until he is in the washroom. Only then does Irene stop leaning against the window and walk over to the side table, setting the empty glass down. The warmth of the alcohol sits pleasantly under her skin and allows her to feel a sense of relief at having found him here that she otherwise would have refused to acknowledge.  
  
"I wasn't certain you'd have come, after that."

 

He looks at himself in the mirror. He cringes. This is what Mycroft had been worried about back when he told John to lie to him. Now, it had actually happened. Sherlock had let sentiment take over for him.  
  
"After the surgery?" he asks, crushing out his cigarette and turning the shower on.. "You think I'd have just left you there, knowing Mycroft's men weren't far behind us?"

 

The sound of running water nearly obscures his question, but she catches enough of it. The alcohol, or perhaps it is sentiment but she'd like to think it was the alcohol, made it seem important to continue the conversation, rather than letting it go, rather than looking through his backpack for hints of what had happened the past week.  
  
Though she does that as well, picking up said backpack as she moves to lean against the outside wall of the washroom. "To Montreal," she corrects as she unzips the backpack, finds the stub of a plane ticket. "I half expected you'd have left for Moscow, not Florida."

 

He undresses and steps into the shower. He wasn't really aware of just how undernourished he'd become until the hot water runs over his skin. He's unbelievably sensitive, his skin very angry at the sudden arrival of water. He's pushed himself to limits before, but they were never due to emotions.  
  
He puts his head under the water and nearly misses her comment.  
  
"I still have things that need to be done here," he says. "Also, Mycroft would've noticed an international flight to Russia so soon after I left."

 

She slides to a seat on the ground against the wall, tucking her feet carefully beneath her. Her injured leg twinges in protest before she shifts her weight, but that is easily remedied as she rifles through the backpack.  
  
Cigarette smoke lingers against the fabric so thickly that she imagines she can feel it on her fingertips, and scraps of cellophane from unwrapped boxes attest to just how many cigarettes had been in and out of the pack. The scent wasn't just recent then, but volume.  
  
More noteworthy, perhaps, is what she does _not_ find in the pack, no food wrappers or hastily crumpled receipts from takeaway places on the road. That is telling. She picks up the heavy pocketknife she _does_ find and frowns as she turns it over in her hands.  
  
"I'd imagine he'd have tracked you here regardless."

 

"He tried," Sherlock agrees. "Found it a bit difficult in Washington. All of his spies there are easily paid off."  
  
He pours a handful of hotel shampoo in his hand and thinks that this---this is an odd way to talk. Any conversation through the bathroom door with John Watson would be ignored because "that's not where you have conversations". The Woman is like Sherlock in this way. Multitasking is simply more efficient.  
  
As he scrubs his hair, he is surprised to find that the soap bubbles tinge with blue. He'd dyed his hair four days ago. That was revoltingly telling.  
  
"He will, no doubt, have someone waiting for you by the hotel's front door."

 

The rest of the contents of the backpack are arranged neatly in front of her, the cocaine and syringes earning less interest than the pocketknife. Those, after all, had been expected. The pocketknife had not been.  
  
She rises, careful not to disturb the arrangement of the contents of his pack and heads for the side table with the room's telephone. The pocketknife remains in her hand, and she runs an idle thumb over its hilt. Smooth from regular touch, and the hinge that allowed the blade to fold out was worn, though the blade itself wasn't. Its previous owner had had a habit of opening and closing it, then.  
  
She considers his words, and before answering calls the front desk for room service. Simply because _she_ needs to eat, of course. The bourbon on an empty stomach had been an idiotic decision. Certainly not because of what she hadn't found in his pack.  
  
"Then it's a good thing I don't plan on leaving by the front door," she answers after hanging up the phone.

 

"I think climbing through the window might be a bit problematic for you, Woman," he replies.  
  
He steps out and runs the towel over his head before cinching it at his waist. He should probably care less about his appearance, but there's something about the Woman being around that makes him conscious of how he appears to her. He remembers straightening his coat in her flat back in London, the quick glance in the mirror at his hair before she woke up in his bed. It's not so much that she makes him want to be "normal", quite the contrary. She makes him feel like a man, rather than a god. It's not really a pleasant thing.  
  
He peers out of the washroom at her.  
  
"He's more dangerous than Jim was," he says. "My brother, that is. Far more influential."

 

There is the faintest hint of a flush on her cheeks, the flush of alcohol induced capillary dilation beneath skin still a touch too pale to be completely healthy. But she doesn't seem to notice, or care, instead looking up from her contemplation of the knife to him as he peers out of the washroom.  
  
A sharp smile. "Then it's a good thing I have far more experience dealing with influential men than I ever had with consulting criminals, isn't it?"

 

Her eyes are on the pocketknife, and he can't help but wonder what, precisely, she thinks of it. What she can deduce from simply holding it. All the same, Sherlock can't help but smile, just a little, at her response.  
  
"You've nearly beaten him once," he says. "He'll be more wary in the future."  
  
But he doesn't think Mycroft will go so far as to have her killed. Not if he thinks Sherlock will figure it out.

 

She doesn't tell him that she's already beaten Mycroft Holmes, that by simply _being_ here she's ensured a stalemate with the man behind the British government. She doesn't tell him, because to tell him would be to admit sentiment, to once again acknowledge with words that they have caught themselves in each other.  
  
Irene swings the the pocketknife open, sensitive fingertips testing the blade. A precise pin prick, sharp blade. No nicks along the edge. Her voice is quiet.  
  
"I'm not interested in playing against your brother."

 

"He'll be very interested in trying to play with you," he replies. "And he has...ways of making certain that his playmates are listening to him, even when they want to be left alone."  
  
He takes in the hair, the makeup, the _her_ -ness she has again, even without the impossibly high heels (leg pain, no doubt. Another month and she'll be back into them without question.  
  
"Do you feel like yourself again?" he asks. It's not that he feels envious, mind. Standing in a pristine hotel room without anything but a towel covering himself. Not even his favorite coat---not even one of the trappings of Sherlock Holmes for him right now.

 

The question takes her by surprise; no doubt it is painfully obvious in the pause before she answers, in the way her fingers slip along the knife hilt before she folds it shut and sets it back on the table.  
  
"If I did, I wouldn't be here," she reminds him, looking up to meet his eye. No, she would have taken Mycroft Holmes' protection and run, if she had felt like Irene Adler of old again.

 

He nods. He can feel the bourbon in his stomach and he knows it should feel warm, comfortable, instead of so _ordinary_. Alcohol has never been his vice, it has always made him too out of control. All the same, it seemed fitting.  
  
He steps towards her, not quite in her personal space, but close enough that he can smell her hair, along with the slightly musty smell of the airplane she took to get here. He reaches out and takes her wrist gently. He is reasserting her existence in his mind.  
  
"I---" his voice is low, awkward, trying to sort out emotions. Like DNA fragments in a gel, they make more sense when they're lined up and actualized. "---was concerned that your death had something to do with Mycroft." Which would have meant it would have been Sherlock's fault.

 

His hand is cool against her wrist, a product of cooling water and his state of undress and the air conditioning in the room, but it is a comforting weight against her over-warm skin nonetheless. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and the gesture seems to soften her, like hairline fractures in a careful facade.  
  
"He is of the opinion that if he were involved in my demise in any way, you'd figure it out." She twists her wrist in his hand, so that her own fingers rest against his wrist. "It would seem I'm as safe as humanly possible from the British government."

 

"Good," he says. He thinks that if he were not quite as sleep deprived and hadn't consumed as much bourbon, he might've kept that sentiment to himself. But then again, he doesn't properly care right now.  
  
He thinks he would figure it out, but then again, he overlooked Mycroft's lie that, in hindsight, was so _obvious_. No body, no doctors telling him this, nothing. Of course it was a lie. Sentiment clouded his judgment. With the Woman, it always does.  
  
"Once we've parted, I think his assessment will be more accurate," he says. And it's true, in his mind. It's a good thing that they'll be separating, because then his mind will be clearer. Not as clouded by sentiment. It will---it will be good, he tells himself. No matter how he enjoys the feeling of her fingers resting against his wrist.

 

She takes a deliberate step towards him, not breaking the light mutual touch, knowing that her skin is warm beneath his fingertips. Her gaze steadily meets his as the gesture closes the distance between them.  
  
There is no question that this holiday will end, there had never been any doubt of it since she'd seen him on the winding streets of Kotor. But the acknowledgment of it is solid, an undeniable, unshakeable truth. "Accurate, perhaps, but less enjoyable," she answers.

 

She's close enough that he can feel her warmth through her clothing. She's close enough that he can smell her vividly and hear her breath. He leans forward, and brushes his nose against hers.  
  
"While I will admit that I'm far from disappointed that you're alive, Woman," he says. "I don't love you."  
  
He moves forward to press his mouth to hers when he hears a sharp knock at the door.

 

Her smile is accompanied by the barest laugh, more an exhale than a real sound of amusement, especially when it is swallowed up by the sound of the rap on the door. "I was wondering when you'd tell me you didn't love me," she murmurs, closing the distance just enough to touch her lips lightly to his.  
  
And with that barely there kiss, she slips her hand out of his again and heads for the door, adding over her shoulder, "I had expected it five minutes ago."

 

"You never share the sentiment," he replies. "Were I a lesser man, I might be concerned."

 

She peers through the door's peephole and confirms the bellhop with room service (awkward, inexperienced, and with a penchant to be far too forward when he screwed up the courage but without enough entitlement to curse the world for his failure). Another glance over her shoulder, a gleam dancing in her eyes.  
  
"If you were a lesser man, we wouldn't be having this conversation," she points out. "As it is, I'd rather leave you to your deductions."

 

His deductions. The most important of which is that she's here. Here with him when she could be ripping Mycroft apart from the inside out. He can make many deductions, but he isn't certain that he'd ever try to deduce her heart. He can deduce her passwords, even deduce her attractions, but her heart...it's different.  
  
"What are we expecting?" he asks.

 

He had deduced it once, had called the password to her cameraphone her heart and exposed her. And there is a part of her that recognizes it as having been foolish, having been an idiotic vulnerability and refuses to have it happen again. And despite the very fact that she is _here_ , that everything on their holiday has proven out truth and lies in everything they are and have been to each other, there is still the part of her that refuses to let him have that again.  
  
Pride. Senseless, perhaps. But pride nonetheless.  
  
She steps back and turns the doorknob, waving the bellhop and his covered cart inside. She answers with a smirk.  
  
"Dinner."

 

Sherlock nods, watching the bellhop enter. He doesn't give more than a passing glance to Sherlock's attire and the Woman's body language, but his hair---his hair says a good deal more about him.  
  
"You straighten your hair," Sherlock says, suddenly. "The length, the amount of wax. You straighten it to avoid the curls. But the humidity in a kitchen and other housekeeping...that must wreak havoc on it. It's 12:35 in the afternoon, means you're 3/4 of the way through your shift, but the curls still haven't come out yet. Slow morning?"  
  
Before the bellhop can answer, Sherlock continues.  
  
"Tell my brother to leave us alone."

 

The smirk becomes a sharp, almost predatory smile as the bellhop starts in response, and Irene kicks the door shut. Said bellhop's eyes dart to the now-closed door and Irene gives him an appraising look before meeting Sherlock's eye. There is no doubt in her mind that he'll recognize the look on her face, the glint of obvious pleasure in her eyes, the challenge and the promise.  
  
"Are you sure that's the only message you want him to take back?" she asks conversationally as she approaches the disguised bellhop. "He must be good for at least one more thought. Two may be pushing it, no doubt he'll try to chat up your brother's assistant and anything else we tell him will leave that empty little head."

 

"Just his type, is she?" Sherlock replies.  
  
There is their sentiment for one another, although Sherlock is convinced it can not be confused with love, and then there is _this_. Watching her mind work, watching the things she can do with her mind---very little in the world is more attractive. The way her eyes glint in the warm light of the hotel room, it sends an electrical charge down him.

 

The disguised bellhop's eyes dart nervously from one of them to the other, and, as she approaches, Irene can see his throat work frantically, trying to offer a denial nobody in the room would believe. She catalogs what she can see in the room: the cocaine by the washroom, the knife on the table, the lingering steam from the shower in the air, the subtle distortions in the carpet that spoke of where she'd lingered by the window, by the table. All of it easily seen, that Mycroft Holmes would have seen, but that Mycroft's man would miss.  
  
There was no doubt in Irene's mind that he was focused on the fact that she was here, that Sherlock wore nothing but a towel, and that was enough for him to draw his conclusions. Simple conclusions, ones that wouldn't give Mycroft Holmes any of the detail he needed to draw his own conclusions, which meant that wasn't the only thing he'd sent, not on something like this.  
  
She stops behind Mycroft's man and runs a painted nail along his front, plucking a gold lapel pin from his shirtfront. The only thing on his uniform that didn't belong, the only thing big enough to conceal a camera. She drops it carelessly into a carafe of ice water on the cart the bellhop had brought before speaking again.  
  
"We could tell him about Sydney," she tells Sherlock conversationally as Mycroft's man's eyes dart from the carafe to Sherlock again. There's a desperation to him now, as if he's realizing he'll actually have to think. Irene's smile grows; no doubt now he'll try to think of everything, to give Mycroft Holmes every scrap of information he can think of, and jumble it all into such a mess that no one would be able to make heads or tails of it. "I believe the spider's web there is extensive."

 

The Woman's viciousness with the bellhop shouldn't be so delightful. It really shouldn't. But there's something so wonderfully _twisted_ within her, something that mirror's Sherlock's own brain, that he can't deny his attraction to. The more she is herself, the better it is.  
  
"It wouldn't be worth it," Sherlock says, easily. "Mycroft's men wouldn't know where to start there anyway, much less find us."  
  
He nods down the man's shoes. "Tell your associate, the valet, that he's welcome to have a car ready tomorrow morning to take us to Montréal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport. If you're very, very good, maybe we'll act surprised."

 

The man's throat works, and he mouths the name of the airport to himself in abortive silence. Irene laughs, the sound low and velvety as she steps in front of the bellhop and towards Sherlock again, turning around so that she can scrutinize Mycroft's man fully.  
  
"Tomorrow morning, Mr. Holmes?" she murmurs, tapping a finger against blood red lips. "What makes you think I'll be done with you by then?"

 

"Our supplies, I'm afraid," he replies, without missing a beat. He looks over to the bellhop. "Oh, yes, you can send a few things our way, can't you? We'll make you a list. We could make it early afternoon, then."

 

"Mmm, I do prefer late flights," Irene muses as the bellhop nods helplessly, his eyes wide. The man had already demonstrated a decided inability to use words, but now he seemed on the verge of swallowing his own tongue.  
  
She shoots Sherlock a look over her shoulder, all smoldering sexuality and wickedness, before turning her attention back to the bellhop. She takes a step towards him, reaching for the cart, and he flinches. Her smile grows as she takes the carafe of ice water and shoves it into his arms. "Do what Mr. Holmes tells you, pet, and then do kindly get out. Your master should remember that."

 

"Work with the leaving bit," Sherlock says. "If we need you, we'll ring."  
  
He steps over, around the Woman, very conscious of her body space---or, at least, conscious of ignoring how close his body presses against hers---and reaches over to the door.  
  
"Leave," he says to the bellhop again. "Now."

 

He is warm and solid against her back, and Irene doesn't bother resisting the urge to lean back, to press every inch of herself against him. The bellhop's eyes flicker between them again, and decides that leaving was, in fact, the only option left for him and certainly his superiors could understand.  
  
He clutches the carafe against his chest, as if afraid they would change their minds and take it (and the lapel pin sitting in the bottom) back, and turns to flee. She watches for a moment without pulling away, then stretches out a leg to kick the door shut again.  
  
"Hm, maybe I should have made him beg to leave."

 

"I figure we can just make the 'supplies' we need particularly interesting," he says, indulging in their close physical contact. "Just something to get his imagination going before he talks to Mycroft in the morning."  
  
Part of him wants to express to her how this, this exact moment, is the reason why he grieved when he thought she was dead. It isn't for the sentimental moments (or, at least, not entirely for the sentimental moments). No, it's for her brilliance, her ability to _observe_ , and the way she takes those observations and holds onto them like a cat with prey.

 

She laughs, and turns just enough to press her lips to the curve of his jaw, utterly careless of the fact that she's leaving a telltale trace of red lipstick behind.  
  
"It might have been entertaining to disabuse Mycroft of his notions," she says against his skin, "but this is _far_ more interesting, all things considered."

 

"Mhmm," he agrees. Her lips are warm against him. _She_ is warm against him, and he feels the oddest need to memorize every sensation of her this close to him. To remember (as if _he_ were able to forget), for afterwards.  
  
Afterwards. As humanity considers things BCE and AD, he used to think of things BR and AR (before Rich Brook and afterwards). Lately, however, he's thought of things in BH and AH----before the Holiday and _now_. Though he figures he may split his thought process into BH, DH, and AH---but that sort of a complicated mindset isn't going to last. In the end, things will simply be thought of as _afterwards_.


	5. The Daylight Turns and Runs (Rated E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither death nor Mycroft Holmes could keep Sherlock and Irene Adler from the game they play. And united, their game continues in earnest.

"We'll have to remember to order pie," he says. "Just to remind him of his diet."

 

Another low, warm laugh, and Irene steps back just enough to turn so that she is facing him again, so that the amount of space between them is small and precise. Her fingers run lightly along his chest, warm from the heat of the shower, and linger along the stitches to the wound from London.   
  
"There are far better things to order if we wanted to frustrate your brother _and_ his little spy," she challenges. "Things that might even be useful."

 

They have two distinct sides to this attraction between them. There is the lustful intensity, the flirtation and frustration that draws them back together. It is a wild but very calculated intensity, woven by two extremely clever and vicious people. It is in his deductions to impress, it is in the way she easily marks out what people like and how she could destroy them. This is what shines in the Woman's eyes, and traces a thin line across his chest with her fingertip as the touches him.  
  
And then there is what he is feeling right now.  
  
He reaches up his hand and catches her wrist as she traces her fingertip over the left side of his chest, gently pressing her hand there. It's a very silly thing, he thinks, putting one's heart as a symbol of any and all affection, but still---but _still_ \---  
  
She is _alive_.  
  
"Thank you," he finds himself saying. He isn't quite certain why at first, and his eyebrows knit together in self-frustration before he works it out. "F-For not accepting my brother's offer and remaining dead." A beat. "Again."

 

There is a flicker of surprise in her expression at his words, a moment of confusion where she is genuinely at a loss for what to say. Because she plays emotion and desire like an endless game, and this is something she does not _want_ to toy with, something that required a degree of honesty to balance the scales.  
  
She could tell him she did it to spite Mycroft, that her distaste for the elder Holmes meant she'd be contrary, but that wasn't the entire truth of it, that she _liked_ this, that she wanted their holiday to continue for as long as they could manage it.  
  
Her hand remains at his chest, warm skin against warm skin, and she can feel the steady beat beneath her fingers. "I like being alive," she answers. She likes knowing _he_ knows she's alive. "I'd much rather be alive and misbehaving here than dead and protected by his sufferance."

 

His hand remains at her wrist, her pulse against his fingertips. Their relationship must seem strange to most. He doesn't care. It it perfect for him.  
  
He offers her a small, very genuine smile. At least they can be somewhat honest. Sometimes. Perhaps more often than he'd like to admit, he finds himself _wanting_ to be honest with her.  
  
He breaks her gaze to look behind her at the trays of food. He realizes he is _famished_.  
  
"What did you order?"

 

She, on the other hand, does not want to be honest. Honesty is vulnerability and she is far too much herself, far too predatory in her own nature to enjoy any sort of vulnerability, anything that marks her as something other than the utterly untouchable Woman, as the goddess who brings people to their knees in quivering abject submission.  
  
But he draws that honesty, that vulnerability, those words of admission, out of her, just like she provokes admission of emotion out of him.  
  
She smiles back, and despite the blood red lipstick, there is something in the gesture that is fundamentally different than the dominatrix's smile, something that is genuine and vulnerable and utterly ephemeral.   
  
When his attention turns to the cart, she steps back, away from him, and picks up a covered dome at random. She's ordered a little bit of everything the menu had to offer, though there is an undeniable emphasis on lean protein and fats rather than simple carbohydrates in her choices. The sorts of things people who had not eaten in several days would typically need to replenish the body, rather than simple hotel decadence.  
  
"I told you, dinner."

 

"Never thought you'd take it so literally," he replies with a mildly teasing smirk. He watches as she reaches over and pulls the top off of one of the trays, revealing a place of meats on sticks. He takes one and pulls it over, taking a bite. Eating after an extended fast of any sort is a risky thing, but this selection (and, he imagines, the rest of what's under the trays) will be simple enough to digest.  
  
He steps away, still nibbling at the meat, and picks up a pad of paper from the writing desk in the room, where he scribbles down a few requests.  
  
"Any suggestions my brother might prefer?" he asks.

 

She picks up a small bowl of chilled green beans, potatoes, and cold poached fish, taking nibbles of the salad and chewing thoughtfully. The bourbon on her empty stomach had done its harm, had coaxed words and actions from her that she would normally be hard fought to offer, but eating now gives her back a semblance of control, of normalcy as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed.  
  
She gives him an answering smirk as she tucks her feet beneath her. "Six feet of nylon rope, three peacock feathers, and a cup each of whipped cream, melted dark chocolate, and caramel sauce."

 

He writes the suggestions down and looks up at her, one eyebrow raised.  
  
"Sounds like you're making a very vicious dessert," he says. He steps over to the door and slides the note under.

 

"Any other kind would be boring," she answers. She arches an eyebrow back, her earlier vulnerability gone, her smile once again razor sharp. "And I did say I wouldn't be done with you by morning."

 

"Yes," he agrees. "You did."  
  
The meat finished, he wipes the edge of his mouth with his thumb and moves to pour himself a cup of tea. Slowly, with precision.  
  
"I imagine we'll have everything requested in under an hour."

 

Her eyes follow his movements, noting the precision with which he he pours tea, and Irene set aside her own meal, shifting to draw her knees up to her chest. "If the challenge had been time, I'd have suggested something more elaborate," she says. "Perhaps a ferret."

 

"Should be more precise than that," he says, moving to sit down on the opposite end of the bed with his tea and a bowl of the chilled fish and beans. "He'll suspect we're being difficult otherwise. Perhaps a branding iron and six white mice."  
  
Unwittingly, he tucks his legs up under himself in a stance very similar to hers. His towel is just long enough to maintain some modesty, but this does, oddly enough, feel like a conspiratorial meeting of the minds.

 

She laughs, clearly, obviously delighted at that. "A demusked grey ferret and three beeswax periwinkle coloured candles would be difficult," she suggests, her eyes positively gleaming. She will miss this, she thinks, the moments where they are clearly and obviously of the same mind.   
  
"Then what does our current list of supplies say if not 'difficult'?"

 

He returns the laugh with a chuckle of his own at the idea of his brother seeing this list and drawing his own conclusions. He would, after a time, realize they were simply being difficult, but at first...  
  
"The headlight of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala and six boxes of coarse sea salt," Sherlock offers. "To reduce the number of animals in the room."

 

Another laugh. "At that point, I'd simply suggest a cage, and let conclusions be drawn," she retorts.   
  
She takes another bite of food, and the gesture allows the warm light in the hotel room to wink off the amethyst ring on her finger. Throughout their holiday, they have shed clothes, disguises, aliases, and hair colours, but the ring from Kotor remained a constant. It had played the part of disguise, of course, but it had been the token the Black Lotus had sent, and she'd expected to have lost it for good in San Salvador.  
  
She hadn't expected him to have sent it to Montreal.  
  
"What would you have done," she asks, suddenly quiet, "if I hadn't been here?"

 

He raises an eyebrow at the somber nature of the question, and takes a sip of his tea as he considers how he should answer. There is the obvious answer, of course. He'd have continued to remain dressed in the same clothing, probably without eating. He'd have stewed and scowled and eventually eaten _something_ and had to pull himself together. Grief is not something he has had a lot of experience with, but he imagines it must be like a rather unpleasant stomach illness. It eventually fades.  
  
"I'd have shot the man in room 301," he says calmly. "Planted the pocket knife on the scene. Then have headed to Moscow."

 

She thinks back to the hotel manifest she'd coerced the clerk into allowing her access to, and tries to recall the name in room 301. _H. Gregory._ Not a name she is familiar with, and for all she knows it is a pseudonym. But she keeps that in the back of her mind anyway.  
  
She takes another moment to eat, then set the mostly empty bowl aside. She doesn't mention that he'd have been in no state to shoot straight when he'd answered the door. That had to have been obvious even to him. Had to have been. Which, perhaps, explained her next question, still quiet, her chin resting on her knees as she watches him. "And now?"

 

"He runs a series of high-profile assassins," Sherlock says. "He's their Keeper. Without him, they'll either flee or seek work outside of Canada and America."  
  
He gives a somewhat exaggerated shrug. " _Or_ , without him, they'll look for someone to take his place."

 

She raises an eyebrow, all exaggerated innocence at his answer. She doesn't expect him to be fooled, of course, no doubt he expects she is already fitting that information into her plans, into her calculations. A little part of her wonders why he offers it, knowing she would use it. She refuses to think it is because he simply wants her to have it.  
  
"That begs the question of whether all the available options require the man in room 301 to die, Mr. Holmes."

 

"It does, doesn't it?" Sherlock agrees. He's already considered more than a few options when it comes to this man. Killing anyone is not something he takes lightly, especially not since meeting John Watson and his overly active moral sense. In the case of Gregory, however, there weren't many choices. Framing him for something and getting him arrested would be all but impossible, as he'd evade capture or escape far before anything could be proven. Sherlock wasn't certain he'd be able to reason with him, not after he'd built this group of assassins up.  
  
He takes a sip of his tea.  
  
"And you, Woman?"

 

She rises from the bed at the question, and takes the dirtied dish back to the cart, taking a minute to pour herself a cup of tea, carefully adding just a touch of lemon to the cup.   
  
"And I what, Mr. Holmes? I hardly know the man in question well enough to decide his fate."  
  
A deliberate dodge.

 

He notices the dodge and gives his own parry.  
  
"How long would you need?"

 

"To decide whether Gregory lives or dies? Five minutes."  
  
She arches an eyebrow in return and watches him steadily over the rim of her teacup as she takes a sip. "Suddenly trusting me now?"

 

"Never," he replies, his voice a low purr. Before he can add to that, there's a knock at the door. He raises an eyebrow.  
  
"One knock. Sharp rap, middle of the knuckle. Must be our delivery."

 

Her smile grows in response to the single word, but the knock on the door draws her attention and Irene walks over to peer through the peephole in the door. Senseless precaution. If it were someone who'd intended to do them harm, no doubt a peephole nor a door would stop them.  
  
She reaches for the doorknob as the peephole shows her Mycroft's spy disguised as bellhop scurrying away. "Less time than I expected. Maybe I should have gone with the mice and the branding iron."

 

"For the next list, then," Sherlock says. The food interests him less the more he tries to eat it, so he gives up and sets it back on the tray. He'll eat more as the night goes on. He'll need to sleep, but---not just yet. There's something in conversing with the Woman that is more stimulating than any drug.  
  
"You should have all your ingredients for dessert there," he says.

 

She swings the door open, and the hastily assembled mass on the cart provokes a laugh. She could see Mycroft's man's hand in every detail, from the speckles of whipped cream that splattered the cart (shaking hands as he set it down), to the precariously balanced violin case.   
  
She reaches out and plucks the case off the cart before it falls, and throws him a smirking glance over her shoulder. "Well, all except for one's there."

 

"Ah, yes," he says. He balances his tea in its saucer on the bed and stands, stepping over to take the violin from her. It had been months since he'd held a violin, much less owned one or played one. For some reason, it had come to his mind to order one now.  
  
He peers over the ingredients on the cart. The whipped cream, the chocolate sauce. He raises an eyebrow.  
  
"What are you missing?"

 

She brushes against him as she reaches over to dip a fingertip into the bowl of chocolate sauce, testing its temperature. A trifle warm to the touch at the moment, but the chocolate clings to her pale finger as she holds it up for him to examine.  
  
A smirk plays on her lips. "Make a deduction."

 

He tilts his head down to look at the chocolate sauce on her fingertip. It looks relatively warm, shiny with a high sugar-to-oil ratio, which is a sign of a well-made brand of chocolate, heated probably with a double-boiler and given some sort of an anti-hardening agent.  
  
Sherlock does eat sweet things occasionally. He just hasn't the faintest idea what she would plan to put on this. She didn't order ice cream, cake, pie---  
  
The smirk on her face is definitely part of it, but he hasn't the faintest idea why.

 

Her smile grows at his continued silence, and she makes absolutely no attempt to hide just how pleased she is. She laughs, low and languorous, as she takes a step back from him.   
  
"Stumped you at last, Mr. Holmes?" she asks, as she licks the drop of chocolate from her fingertip.

 

"No," he replies, automatically, because he has no intention of being _stumped_ , least of all by the Woman. Granted, he could put not working it out due to exhaustion, or the amount of alcohol he's consumed, but---  
  
He raises an eyebrow at the movement of her tongue out to lick the chocolate from her fingertip. Aaaaand _click_ , it falls into place.  
  
"That seems as though it would be very...sticky," he says, his lip twitching into a small smirk.

 

"So are other things you've seemed to enjoy pursuing," she points out, running her moist fingertip along his chest. She's reminded of San Salvador, of the small, sand-filled room at the research center the last time they had been close enough for her to touch him this intimately.  
  
Still, she smirks, and leans back in, rising on her toes to brush her lips against his cheek and whisper against his skin, "It still counts as being stumped, if you get it after a hint."

 

"I didn't ask for a hint," he says. Her warmth against him is distracting, as is the smell of chocolate on her fingertip and the feel of her breath on his cheek. His primary concern, however, is that she is continuing to imply that he is stumped.  
  
"I assume with the whipped cream and the warm chocolate, you have a variety of temperature differentials, yes?" he asks. Despite the analytical nature of his words, he finds himself studying the line of her jaw, and his voice is quieter, lower.

 

She doesn't step back, doesn't pull away, instead chuckling again, her breath skittering warm against his skin. "And you never would have asked for one. It still doesn't change the fact that you didn't get until you had a hint," she all but purrs back.  
  
Irene is close enough that instead of answering his analytical question, she simply reaches back to the cart and catches a dollop of the whipped cream on her finger, holding it mere centimeters from his collarbone.

 

"I would have regardless," he says.  
  
He watches her finger carefully, enthralled by this new concept she's brought in. Clearly, it's something the staff and Mycroft would have immediately come to, where Sherlock had been oblivious. He doesn't move away from her, just stands in waiting.

 

She leans back just far enough to watch him, to take in the intent with which he is watching _her_ , and deliberately drips the dollop of cool, silky whipped cream along the curve where shoulder and neck meet. Her attention remains firmly on him for three seconds before she leans in, the smug, knowing smile still on her lips, and licks away the dessert topping.

 

"Oh?" he murmurs as the cream is smeared against his skin. It smells sweet, and he can feel its coolness, but it doesn't have the impact he expects something colder might. For a moment, he's about to ask what could possibly be the appeal, when her tongue follows the trace of the whipped cream, clearing it from his skin.  
  
" _Oh._ "  
  
The appeal now makes a _lot_ of sense. She gets the taste of whipped cream, he gets the feel of her tongue on his skin. He reaches behind her, dipping his fingertip into the warm caramel, which he traces down that spot on her jaw he was fascinated with. He follows her lead and leans in to lick the sticky substance away.

 

The caramel is warm against her skin, clinging thickly even as his tongue follows its path, and she arches into him, exposing more of her throat and jaw to his mouth. The gesture also presses more of her clothed body against his mostly unclothed one, and for a brief moment Irene is of the opinion that the inequality needed to be remedied immediately.  
  
But on the other hand, she had far better advantage in this case with him so exposed and herself not, and she moves to take full advantage of it, dipping her finger into the warm chocolate with every intention of trailing it along his sternum.  
  
"I knew you'd catch on quickly," she says, with a hitch in her voice as his tongue runs over a particularly sensitive spot.

 

He considers, just for a moment, if this entire scenario is just built up in his mind from the last few days. Sugar, because he hasn't been eating, sex because he's come to enjoy the endorphin rush of orgasm, and the Woman's company because---certainly not because he missed her.  
  
Clearly this must be real and he's going to stop thinking about it in any other way.  
  
He can taste her along with the caramel. The slightly bitter flavor of makeup, the sweetness of her skin beneath it. Yes, the appeal is obvious.  
  
"In this case, I did have a hint," he says. "But not in the other, mind."

 

She traces a line of liquid chocolate down his chest, the thick sauce slick and warm against his skin. Some chocolate remains on her fingers, clinging to her skin when she finishes, and she looks up just long enough to shake her head at his words.  
  
"You'll have to do better than that if you want to convince me you would have figured it out on your own eventually," she challenges before pressing her lips to the line of chocolate she's left on him. She still tastes the faint vanilla of the whipped cream on her tongue, and now the dark, bitter edge of chocolate that makes her wonder idly if she isn't also tasting the bitter grief that had clung to him so strongly for a week.  
  
And beneath the obvious taste of chocolate, the imagined bitter bite of nicotine and bourbon and grief, there is the warm, now-familiar, faintly salty taste of his skin on her tongue.

 

There have been many times since he first fell in with the Woman that she presented him with a situation that he decided should not be attractive were it not her involved. This is one of those times, because chocolate and his chest should be something messy, not _sexy_ in the slightest. But then, he lets out a sigh that is basically his body informing his mind that yes, this is sexy.  
  
She's wearing far too many layers of clothing. In one sense, it is extremely attractive. She is the Woman again, the way she was back in London, back when she first pulled him in. But then again, it is extremely inconvenient, because she has access to his chest and shoulders and collarbone, and he hasn't access to anywhere at all.   
  
Well, one place.  
  
As she licks her way up his chest, he smears the remainder of the caramel sauce on his fingertips to her wrist, right above the pulse point.

 

Her pulse is racing despite the calm deliberation with which her lips move along his chest, and her eyes are dark and dilated when she meets his gaze.   
  
There were numerous reasons she'd said no to Mycroft Holmes, the most obvious of which included the fact that she disliked being manipulated, that she disliked the elder Holmes. But there were other things too, that were fast becoming even more obvious. That she wanted to be _here_ , that she could not give up their moments of shared conspiracy, the constant push as their mutual presence challenged, made each of them more purely themselves. But this too, was a part of it, this deliberate, calculated physicality, the way she drew the sigh out of him, the way the anticipation of his lips against her wrist brought everything into razor sharp focus.  
  
She keeps her eyes on him, as she draws her own wrist, and his fingers around it, up to her mouth, and closes her blood red lips around his fingertips as she reaches behind her back and draws the zipper down on her dress.


	6. As the Sun is Setting (Rated E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Irene Adler's reappearance, there is still something Sherlock Holmes has refused to do, lest it proves her presence is simply a particularly vivid hallucination...

Again, unusual in its intense sexuality. Her heart rate is pounding against his fingertips, and he feels that, along with the sensation of her mouth, warm against his skin. He pulls his fingers and her wrist away from her mouth, moving her wrist up to his. Skin is thinner at the wrist, nerve centers higher. He tastes the caramel against her skin.  
  
Her dress loosens as she unzips it. He knows the curvature of her body perfectly, he's memorized every inch of her, even as it has changed over the last few months. And yet, there is something rather wonderful about watching her undress. Something intimate.

 

She cannot hide her sharp inhale at the touch of his mouth against her wrist. It is completely expected; she knows exactly what it would feel like, but the sensation of his tongue against the thin, sensitive skin of her inner wrist makes her gasp regardless, makes the simmering, deliberate physicality of the moment pool warm and wanting at the base of her spine, where the dress's zipper ends.  
  
Beneath the dress that had clung to her like a glove, she is still every inch Irene Adler, clad in expensive luxurious undergarments, the lash of black lace and garters against pale skin. There are the lingering scars, of course, from Karachi and Kotor and Las Vegas and Hong Kong and London, and the neatly clinical dressing covering the gunshot wound at her thigh from San Salvador, but she is still very much herself as her free hand lets go of the zip of her dress and she runs long painted fingernails along his shoulder.

 

He wonders if this is what it would have been like if they'd been intimate back in London. Her long, painted nails, the way her hair is perfect and primed. He decides that no, no. This is different. Borne out of the companionship and intimacy of this strange holiday they've been on together.  
  
His free hand, he slides up to lower the dress down her shoulder. He considers her shoulder, considers the sweet sauces they have, and decides that once she is properly undressed, he'll focus on proving to her that he would have absolutely worked it out on his own.  
  
The dressing, white and sterile, stands out on her thigh. It serves as a strong reminder that this is not some fantasy his mind has made up. She truly did survive, she really is here.

 

She is still watching him even as her nails trace a pink line along his collarbone, as she shrugs, allowing the dress to fall off her shoulder. She notes the way his eyes linger on the bandage on her thigh, and an almost gentle smile touches the corner of her mouth as she lets go of him just long enough to shrug the undone garment off completely, letting it pool in a haphazard pile at her feet.  
  
She steps out of said pile towards him and presses her mouth to his, tasting caramel on his tongue and chocolate on hers. "Convinced you're not hallucinating yet?" she asks.

 

He realizes, when her mouth touches his, that he hasn't kissed her since he found she was alive. He's thought about it, of course. But until then, he hadn't been able to. Hadn't wanted to break the moment in case it was some sort of a drug-induced hallucination. It wouldn't have been the first time, with her.  
  
She asks her question and he doesn't answer. He lifts his hands up to cup her face and leans down to kiss her again. Slowly, carefully, the way he did back in Las Vegas. _Sentimentally._ He can allow himself some sentimentality when kissing the person he believed to be dead for a week. Surely, she can't fault him that weakness.  
  
"Yes," he finally says.

 

For the moment, she lets him lead, and returns his kiss with the same almost cautious care. She is glad he's allowing himself sentimentality, because it allows her to respond in kind. That unspoken acknowledgment that it is a shared momentary weakness that they will not hold against each other.  
  
She is, after all, wordlessly glad that he is here, that she did not have to go to Moscow, or back to Las Vegas, to put lie to his brother's deception. She coaxes the kiss deeper, her fingers once again trailing along his front, tracing lines along gaunt muscle. Her voice is breathless and infinitely pleased when she finds it again.  
  
"Good."

 

He doesn't love her. He's kissing her back and she kisses him deeper, tracing her fingertips to his chest. He feels something uncurl in his chest, something that he wasn't aware had been tight. But he doesn't love her, he reminds himself. It's important to remind himself that he doesn't.  
  
Love is, after all, a dangerous disadvantage.  
  
He kisses the side of her mouth, and then again to the side of her face. As he does, he reaches back for the whipped cream again, tracing it up the back of her shoulder.

 

She nearly protests when his mouth leaves hers. Almost but doesn't, because there is only so much pure sentimentality she will allow herself. But she doesn't have long to miss the broken contact as the cool, slick touch of whipped cream lands on her warm skin.  
  
And for a moment she is extraordinarily glad for the twisted, elaborate updo, to keep as much of her skin exposed to touch and taste and lips as possible. She smiles, lipstick smudged, as her fingers trail down his chest, until she grips the front of the towel around his hips and pulls him close, ignoring the slight tremble in her leg from standing.

 

He means to move for the whipped cream on her shoulder, but she grips his towel and he finds himself flush with the front of her body again. He doesn't hesitate to press his mouth to hers again, to wrap his arm around her waist. The whipped cream will be fine for a few more minutes, he decides.  
  
She's trembling. He at first thinks it must be from arousal, from their game with the food, but then he thinks it could be the injury to her leg, the thing that could have but did not kill her. He moves to try to turn them, to give her access to sit on the bed. Idly, he wonders how often things like chocolate sauce and whipped cream are found on the sheets of hotel rooms like this, and he decides he doesn't actually care.

 

She feels a fleeting, momentary annoyance at her own body's betrayal when he turns them and she realizes the bed is at her back. But there is no denying the gunshot wound, the muscles still slowly mending beneath the dressing, and she lowers herself to the bed, breaking the kiss as she does. She tries to draw him with her as she sits and tries to hold back the tiny sigh of relief as weight is taken off the injured leg.  
  
Sentiment is one thing. Physical weakness is quite another.   
  
"What do you say, Mr. Holmes?" she asks, her voice a low amused purr, her hand lingering on his arm. "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."

 

He presses his mouth to her shoulder, where the whipped cream is sweet against her skin. He follows as she moves him downwards, positioning himself slightly to the side in order to keep his weight away from her leg. Dinner. Always dinner with her. He finds himself smirking at that---because it's something that Mycroft won't understand. Mycroft, for all of his deductive abilities, never will penetrate what they have between them.  
  
In having this between them, though, he knows that means he has to trust her.  
  
He finds himself replying. "I'm not hungry."

 

She has to smile at that, even as she shifts, leans into him to allow his mouth better access to her shoulder, to the sensitive, flushed skin that all but craves touch. She reaches up, catches a trace of the whipped cream that he has not managed to lick away, and brings it to her own lips.  
  
There is no other answer she would expect, she thinks. No other answer that he could give that makes tension coil warm and pleasant and wanting in the pit of her stomach. Because they don't give in easily, because that too is part of the script, part of the game. "Your actions would suggest otherwise," she answers, licking the drop of white from her fingertip. "Or are you going to tell me this doesn't count?"

 

"I believe in this case, desire has nothing to do with hunger."  
  
That could almost be considered romantic, he supposes. It hardly matters. He leans forward and presses his mouth to hers again.

 


	7. Your Last Breath of Smoke (Rated E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having proven to each other that they are not figments of an overwrought imagination or a mind taxed with grief, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes complete some unfinished business.

He tastes of cream and vanilla, or maybe the cream and vanilla is on her tongue. It seems hardly to matter when they are as inextricably tangled in each other as they are at this moment, as they always are on some level. One hand slides back up his arm, careful to avoid the injury from London, until she can rake her nails across his back.   
  
The kiss coaxes a sigh of want from her despite her best efforts, and in return, Irene reaches her free hand, the one not digging nails into his back, to his waist again, to unknot the towel that still seemed to have kept its position around his hips.

 

A small noise not unlike a moan slips from the back of his throat at the feeling of her fingernails across his back. Her viciousness is part of what appeals, what will _always_ appeal about her, and this is no different. Her free hand goes to his waist and he expects a bite of her nails there, but instead he feels the towel slip downwards, exposing him.  
  
Of course she would make a move to give herself the upper hand.  
  
He, in turn, traces his mouth down her throat again, to her collarbone, and down to the lacy tops of her brassiere. She has completely regained her sense of self, it appears, down to the expensive lingerie. Not that he's complaining, mind. He imagines they are significantly more comfortable. The packaging has never been what is important to him, the Woman's mind is what appeals.

 

She would like to believe that nothing has changed her, that her current, likely permanent, resurrection was to the Irene Adler of old, all whiplash sexuality and razor intellect and unshakeable selfish ambition. It was, partly, why she had returned to herself upon landing in Montreal, to remind herself of what it really meant to be Irene Adler, and to thumb her nose at Mycroft Holmes in as galling a manner as she could manage.  
  
But this _has_ changed her, this holiday from death, these moments of sexuality distilled from intellectual attraction and challenge and sentiment. Her ambitions are still hers, still unchangeably hers, but they are tempered with the promise that her ambitions would leave those he cared about untouched.   
  
She is undeniably herself again, but he has worked his way into that self, into that very definition and changed it in a way that is nigh impossible to undo.  
  
Still, if there are hints of it now, it rests in the space between words, in the knowing way her fingers trace along his hip, in the way she shifts and arches into the touch of his mouth as he trails kisses down her throat and along the tops of her breasts.   
  
But those things do not change the way her nails follow the line of blood vessels and nerves along his hip, do not change the way her nails bite into skin as she rakes them along his hip and leg. They do not change the way the hand at his back moved upward, to curl her fingers tight and demanding in his hair even as she hums approval low in her throat at his touch.

 

One hand he plants on the bed to steady himself, but the other he moves to lower the straps on her brassiere. Finding her arms overly occupied, he decides to go to the back, to undo the clasp. He thinks back to moments before, her back in the mirrored panel of the wall, and he remembers the clasp. Twist of the fingertips and---  
  
Nope. That didn't work. So much for ego.  
  
He tries again, and is successful.  
  
"Thought I remembered it correctly," he murmurs against her skin.

 

She lets go of him just long enough to shrug off the unhooked garment, tossing it carelessly to the side. She pulls away, leans back on the bed just far enough to watch him, and a smirk curls on her lips as her fingers tangle back into his hair. "Who said it was the same clasp as before?" she murmurs back, leaning in to catch his bottom lip between hers.   
  
"I thought you could use a challenge."

 

He kisses her back, and silently contemplates adding to his website---214 different types of tobacco ash, and now he knows 3 different types of brassiere clasps. He'd need to consult the Woman on others, mind. That is, of course, should she remain someone he could contact back in London. Perhaps he'd simply ask John's girlfriends.  
  
The end of the holiday, though. That would signal an end to this, to their companionship. He'd been avoiding considering that, but it was becoming more and more obvious that they didn't have an extraordinary amount of time left together. Less time spent thinking about London and more time spent thinking about now.  
  
He breaks the kiss and resumes his attentions to her breasts. He takes one nipple between his lips, focusing on it in the way he did before, the way that she appeared to find pleasing, and his free hand went back to focus on removing the rest of her undergarments.

 

She is tempted to make him stew, to see how long it would take him to work out how to unhook a garter belt, to undo the tiny clasps holding her stockings. But her consideration of that particular exercise in frustrating Sherlock Holmes evaporates when he catches the peak of one breast between his lips.   
  
It is perhaps no surprise that he has figured out in a very short amount of time exactly what she liked, as his teeth run lightly along the sensitive skin and his tongue traces the now-hardened nipple. She gasps, the sharp intake of breath turning into a moan, and she lets go of his hair, one arm bracing back to keep her balance and the other hand reaching down to help remove what was left of her clothing, snapping open the clasps on the garters with practiced fingers even as his mouth and warm breath against her breast drive her to distraction.  
  
"Mmm, you're getting better." Or, that was what she was _trying_ to say when the low moan escapes her lips.

 

Ah, and his ego is back again with that comment. The Woman understates his abilities, as is her way, and he knows by her comment that means she approves. He also knows she doesn't have the confidence in him regarding her garter belt. This is unfortunate, in his mind, considering he's worn the bloody things himself during a particularly interesting case back in London and has become very confident in how to take them off even in eight-inch heels.  
  
Then again, explaining _that_ story to her isn't something he'd prefer right now. His mouth is a bit occupied.  
  
He moves his lips away from her breasts, tracing his mouth down her ribcage before coming upon her knickers. He presses his mouth to the fabric there before hooking his thumb at the top and lowering it.

 

It was, on the whole, probably best for the entire world that Irene Adler never hears of that particular case. If she recognizes his unanticipated skill with removing garters, she'd be curious and... well visual (and photographic) evidence would have to be procured, simple as that.  
  
But for the moment the world is spared and she remains far too aware of exactly where every part of him is in relation to herself (far too little of him beneath her hands, far too much of him focused on drawing another gasp, another breathless moan out of her). She arches her hips as his fingers pull away the lace thong covering her, wincing in more irritation than pain when the silky scrap catches on the edge of the bandage at her thigh.  
  
Her fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him close, urging him on with everything except words.

 

There are several layers to sexual attraction. There is physical stimulus (her hand in his hair), there is environmental stimulus (the smell of her sex as he tosses the thong away and returns to his position at her hips), and psychological stimulus. The last he finds is best acquired by making the Woman moan, gasp, climax, or do anything remotely in that realm of expression of pleasure.  
  
He's far from an expert. But he likes to think his learning curve is higher than most.  
  
He traces his mouth on the edge of her thigh, then moves to press it to her sex, remembering the motion of his fingers back in San Salvador and repeating that, this time with his tongue.

 

The physical and environmental stimuli are easily replicable, easily found in discarded lovers of variable skill, easily feigned if necessary. But it is the psychological, the knowledge that the talented tongue tracing patterns along her skin belongs to Sherlock Holmes, that they have danced through the world as ghosts along the invisible threads of Moriarty's web, it is _that_ knowledge that cannot be replicated, that makes sex more than chemistry and biology. It is that knowledge that intensifies the sensation he provokes with his tongue along her clitoris, that turns the grip of his hand against her hip into a burning brand.  
  
And it is that knowledge, that he is Sherlock Holmes, that she is Irene Alder, that keeps her from urging him on with words. But it is that same knowledge, that they are here, that neither of them are dead and that they have found each other again despite the elder Holmes' attempted machinations, that makes her want this connectivity again, that makes her want this.  
  
Well, and his continued intimate study of her body helps. She feels distinctly like an instrument at the moment, like the violin now discarded on the hotel carpet, tension taut as he plays against skin and flesh, and even as her hand tightens in his hair, uncertain whether to draw him to her or to hold him between her legs, liquid desire washes over her and she finds herself crying out.  
  
" _Please_."  
  
The only thing that keeps her from considering it begging is the fact that she is trying to draw him up to her, to make the single word as much a demand as a plea.

 

In Sherlock's mind, that is most certainly begging. He moves over her, lips curled into something like victory. Never mind how aroused he is, never mind how she found him when she first came into the room. In his mind, this is a symbol of winning.  
  
He presses his mouth to hers, the taste of her still on his lips.  
  
Moving between her legs is more difficult, trying to avoid the injured leg, fear of damaging the dressing or causing bleeding or anything that might break this between them. Or hurt her, of course. Right now, however, blood flow can only go to one of a few places: Heart, brain, or sexual organs. His brain never shuts off.

 

His mouth against hers is nowhere near enough, and for a moment she wonders if he is trying to make her beg, and it flashes through her mind that if he is, that he would be waiting a very long time.   
  
Pride.  
  
But another second and she realizes his hesitance, instead moving, shifting to wrap her injured leg around him, drawing him closer as her hand in his hair tugs him to her. "I'm not made of glass," she tells him before deepening the kiss, before catching his lip between her teeth, once again all demanding, insistent softness. "You can't break me."  
  
And in that too, is knowledge, is unspoken trust, that he of all people could, nearly had once, but _wouldn't_. Not now.

 

He could. He could break her, and she doesn't realize it. She was almost completely broken back in San Salvador. He almost lost her, lost her completely. He's spent the last week convinced of it. And then, at the door, he was ready to shoot her in order to prevent the sensation of losing her again. She doesn't even _know_ , he thinks, of how quickly she could be hurt.  
  
But then again, perhaps she does know. She knows him far better than he prefers, perhaps in more ways than he's ready for.  
  
He positions himself between her legs as they kiss, and he slides his free hand up to her thigh, while the other holds him over her on the bed. He moves forward, cautiousness still present but not as heavy as before, inside of her.

 

She lies back on the bed as he moves above her and, having freed her arm from the need to steady herself, reaches between them to guide him inside, her body moving with his. For the moment, she is absolutely heedless of the fact that by doing so, hairpins are coming out of her twisting updo, that strands are falling out of place.   
  
But even as her entire body is tension taut with need, there is a part of her mind that is focused on what he's said, on information and the thought of the man in room 301, and as she arches her hips to meet his, and her mouth traces down to the curve of his shoulder, she murmurs against his skin, "We could make Mycroft's man kill the man in 301. He wouldn't even realize it."

 

She knows what he likes. He likes it when they use their minds together. In a way, it's more intimate than the way their bodies are moving in tandem right now, as he thrusts within her, and then moves his hips back again. She moves up to meet him, and he finds the rhythm with her is easier, now. They know each other.  
  
"Mycroft would work it out," he agrees, breathless. "But by then we'd be halfway across the country."  
  
He kisses the side of her jaw, and runs the edge of his nails along the side of her uninjured thigh. Not enough to hurt properly, but enough to show her that yes, he agrees, she can't be broken

 

She gasps, arching into the touch of his lips against the side of her jaw and the kiss of his nails against her skin. But it's more than that, it's physical pleasure and mental stimulation all at once, the certainty of knowing that there is someone who understands (at least on occasion) how an extraordinary mind works.  
  
"Distract him with his own people's failure," she agrees. She is breathing hard, her eyes dark as her hand moves to his back, to dig familiar furrows across his back. "And he'll be too busy playing catch-up to realize what's going on under his nose."

 

He finds himself grinning against her skin as he moves within her. Sexual stimulation can be found with anyone, but this---this is something that only the Woman can give him. That mental stimulation, the thing that truly brings him to the edge.  
  
"You'd need to leave him a calling card," he says. "I don't want to take credit for what you've accomplished."

 

Her hand tightens in his hair, nails biting into his scalp even as she gasps, as his movement brushes against sensitive nerves and sends a jolt of physical pleasure down her spine and her legs tighten around him, pulling him closer.   
  
"Don't think you can sit back and watch, Mr. Holmes," she answers breathlessly, "I fully expect to be impressed."

 

He moans against her, the tug on his hair and the feel of her tight around him almost completely overwhelming. The conversation serves to both ground him and arouse him at the same time. But that's the Woman, to him. Grounding and untouchable while utterly enticing and consuming. He wouldn't have her any other way.  
  
"I doubt you'd expect anything less," he says. "But I expect you will take all of the credit."  
  
In a way, it's exactly what he hopes for. Her, taking the credit. Foiling Mycroft in every way that Sherlock won't be able to, back in London."

 

"Eventually." The single word melts into a wordless purr of approval at the feel of his low moan skittering across her heated skin. She urges him on with a thrust of her hips, quickening the rhythm they've established. Hairpins scatter across the sheets, and curls fall loose from her hair.  
  
He does this to her, undoes her in a way that other people cannot even begin to fathom.  
  
It's difficult to continue the conversation when the prospect of what they can and will do burns bright in her mind and desire waits like molten metal at the base of her spine. "But just once, I think it will be far more galling if we shared the credit."

 

Her moan, coupled with her words, shoots pleasure up his spine. It's that viciousness, that way she uses her mind to her own ends, it makes her so---so _sexy_. She could offer him all the sexual advances in the world, but the offer to share the credit of ruining Mycroft's plans is far more erotic to him. And from the way she tightens around him as they mutually speed up their rhythm, he thinks that she must feel the same way.  
  
He wonders if others might think something was wrong with them. It hardly matters. He won't want others. One lover, _this_ lover, is enough.  
  
He lets out a gasp as she thrusts back with her hips and he digs his nails into her thigh again.  
  
"It will only spur him on to try to catch up to us faster," he says. "I think we may have to send him to Sydney."

 

A sharp smile tugs at her mouth in response, and she increases the rhythm at the word 'faster'. His hand at her thigh, nails digging into soft flesh, only spurs her on, coaxes another moan out of her as she pulls him to her, crushing his mouth to hers.   
  
"Save Sydney for a special occasion," she answers. She is unbearably close, the surety of climax spurred on by the conversation as much as their movements and the physical intimacy. But still, she manages to gasp, "He'd be much more miserable hunting ghosts in Perth."

 

He smiles against her mouth in agreement. His own climax is close, the warmth of her body coupled by the mental stimulation is more than enough to push him into orgasm. Unlike other bodily functions, he can't simply tell his body _not_ to orgasm, even though he wants to watch her climax first. Practice, he supposes. And considering he has no intention of leaving for London just yet, they have time to practice.  
  
"We'll send him a mint for his pillow," Sherlock agrees. Though, really, _Perth_ is a bit vicious, even for them.

 

As far as Irene was concerned, Perth was exactly vicious enough, because Mycroft Holmes had interposed himself and his personal _beliefs_ on their momentary respite from the realities of false death. That the elder Holmes had attempted to take what Irene considered something that was unequivocally hers, and attempted to offer a pittance for it. He was the exact sort of potential client she would have rejected out of hand, back in her life as the dominatrix. The client who thought he (or she) could break The Woman to his will due to overabundant pride and undue self-assurance and an absolute inability to understand how the game was played.  
  
She thoroughly enjoyed breaking those particular clients of that misconception, and she expected doing the same to Mycroft Holmes, working _with_ Sherlock to ensure it happened in the most unseen but humiliating way possible...  
  
Pleasure washes over her like an unrelenting wave, and a low laugh of deep satisfaction bubbles up from her throat as she shudders with the force of her climax, her nails digging into his back, her body clenching tight around him.

 

She climaxes around him, and she lets out a low laugh in her throat. He imagines her manipulating the puzzle, moving things around and warping them, turning what Mycroft expects into what he can never _ever_ stop and---and---  
  
He cries out against her shoulder as he comes. Some couples use fantasy to increase arousal and pleasure, but Sherlock and the Woman use promises of future _misbehavings_. He finds himself letting out a short laugh as well. No one else. No one else would understand this, he thinks. No, sex isn't always about sentiment and adoration, sometimes it's about mischief and attraction.  
  
He leans over her and presses a kiss to her mouth.


	8. Flickers Before It's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentiment spent (or so they both claim), Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler move on to more important things: namely, how to make life difficult for the one man who dared to try and keep them apart.

Her laugh is swallowed up by his kiss, a kiss that she returns with lazy, languorous exploration, her grip loosening from his hair and allowing her to wrap her arm around him, keeping him close. She shifts just enough to allow herself to press her forehead against his, her hair now tumbling loose past her shoulders.   
  
She breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against his lips, "It would seem I'm being a very bad influence on you after all, Mr. Holmes."

 

"Yes," he agrees. "I believe you are."  
  
Never mind that before he met her in Montenegro, he was acting as a cold-blooded and single-minded killer. Never mind that before she came back here, he'd been acting like a fool, an ordinary _fool_ with grief. No, the Woman is a bad influence on him, because the Woman says she is. Right now, she could say just about anything and he'd probably find himself agreeing with her. Which is, he thinks, even more dangerous than most situations he finds himself in.  
  
He reaches out, touching one of the locks of her hair.  
  
"I seem to have undone you," he says.

 

She looks down, her eyes heavy-lidded, at the strand of hair curling idly around his finger, dark against her skin. She'd missed this colour, and seeing it again, makes her feel more like herself. Odd, perhaps, that she feels more like Irene Adler in this moment, bare and wounded and satisfied and vulnerable and undone, than she had in ages.  
  
"Yes, I believe you have." She moves, unwrapping her legs from around his waist, and runs an idle hand through his darkened hair. Her voice remains relaxed, fond even. "Should I take that as agreement? That we'll prune the spider's web and upset the ice man's chessboards?"  
  
For a little while longer, at least.

 

It is, without a doubt, the best holiday plan he's heard _ever_. Even John's suggestions of a trip elsewhere didn't hold any real diversion, anything that would be of interest. This, though, this with the Woman. This would be dangerous and interesting and entirely distracting.  
  
He gives her a nod, and leans away from her slightly so his weight is on the bed beside her. He doesn't want to pull away, though, not properly. He doesn't love her, but he thought he lost her up until only a few hours earlier. He isn't certain his body is quite ready for the recoil of this and now the promise of more. But there is no way he will say no.  
  
"I believe I was promised a punch to Moran's face, as well," he says.

 

There are, of course, suddenly plans to make. Plans on how to goad the assassins' master in room 301 to react dangerously. Plans on how to ensure Mycroft's man will be in the right place at the right time to take action. Plans to leave Montreal behind in the confusion. Plans to contact Moran again and make him see how badly he misses the leash.  
  
But when he moves but does not move away, Irene decides there is plenty of time later for plans to be made, that right now there is nothing more pressing than to rest her weight on one elbow and remain precisely where they are. "If I recall correctly, you declined the offer the first time," she teases, watching him. "What makes you think it's still an option?"

 

Sherlock gives her a short, disinterested shrug.  
  
"You can thank him for saving your life _after_ I've thanked him for eleven days in the hospital," he says, equally teasing. He nods to his healing shoulder. "I doubt you've forgotten."

 

"Saving my life?" she scoffs, "I expect he was more concerned about what explosive safeguards I'd put on certain investments in the event of my death."   
  
She'd forgotten that Moran had been the one who'd killed Osesina; after her surgery there had been the conversation with Mycroft to keep her seething, the trip to Montreal. Now, Irene nods, resting a light, almost idle fingertip against his injured shoulder.   
  
"And it's rather difficult to forget, given how you seem inclined to make it worse on a regular basis."

 

"Hardly," he says. He brushes his hand down to her thigh, touching the edge of her dressing. "I'm not made of glass, remember?"  
  
The two of them would end up scarred over this, with little things to their bodies that might make a consulting detective's mind read different pieces of a longer puzzle. She would no longer be completely unreadable. He feels some regret for that, for changing her.  
  
"You're still planning on bringing him into the fold."

 

A smile, soft and genuinely pleased, tugs at the corner of her mouth and at the corner of her eyes at him using her own words against her. Though it is hardly _against_ , when it is simply true.   
  
Still, that warmth fades at his not-question about Moran, and she gives him a shrewd look. "You make it sound as if I plan to share. I'm going to hold his leash."

 

"So long as he behaves like a good dog," Sherlock says, and he takes no small amount of pleasure in referring to Moran as a dog. He imagines the soreness to his shoulder won't go away any time soon, and had the man taken the initiative, the Woman might've not ended up as incapacitated as she had been.  
  
He reaches out to brush a lock of her hair from her shoulder.  
  
"Your plan involving Mycroft's man and our target," he says. "I imagine it has to do with the requests we're going to leave him this evening."

 

The relish in his words make her laugh again, but this time the sound is gilded with the dominatrix's implacable cruelty. "You say that like I'd tolerate anything but good behaviour from a pet."  
  
She leans into the brief touch of his hand as he brushes the hair away from her shoulder; it is an almost imperceptible thing, but they define themselves in the things that other people would consider imperceptible and invisible. Her own fingers trace along his injury and then follows the path of his collarbone as she considers his words.   
  
As a matter of fact, she hadn't considered that path directly, but now that he mentions it, she cannot help but see the elegant simplicity in it. Not that she'd tell him _that_.  
  
"Mm, but exactly what would put our target on edge? Our spy's loyalty to Queen and Country should at least spur him to necessary murder."

 

She moves into his touch. Into, not away from. No intention of leaving, never meant him to think she was dead. Small motions tell so much, they give away things. She can read the sentiment in his touches, too, where others would find him cold and heartless.  
  
"That, and fear," he says. "He even obtained the model of violin I requested. He's afraid of upsetting Mycroft more than he already has."

 

He's read something in the fact that she doesn't pull away. She isn't certain what it is he thinks he's seen, thinks he now knows, but she knows he has, in the minute shifts, in the absence of nearly imperceptible tension. She doesn't ask, because she never asks, not when she could _know_ and if she doesn't she wouldn't admit to not knowing.  
  
Instead her lips quirk into an almost playful smile, and she shifts on the bed, as if to rise from it. "Isn't that what I said? To queen and country?"

 

He lets out a short laugh. Because there is nothing more wonderful than mocking the powerful presence of his brother. His brother, who would not have liked being involved in their bedroom activities, even merely as conversation topic. His brother, who was willing to sacrifice Sherlock's heart if it meant preserving his control.  
  
An idea starts forming. He grins, small and devilishly.  
  
"We'll need a car," he says. "He'll be expecting us to run to any airport within an hour's drive of this hotel. I think a road trip might be our best option."

 

She rises from the bed, the gesture fluid and careful, and steps over to the room service cart from earlier, picking up a ruby red strawberry from a bowl of fruit. Irene considers it, or his idea, contemplatively for a moment. "To somewhere crowded," she muses, her back momentarily to him and utterly heedless of her current state of undress.  
  
"Somewhere hard to track, but visible. By the time he realizes we aren't at the airport, he'll need a hint, perhaps a glimpse in a crowd on a CCTV?"

 

"For Moran," Sherlock says with a nod. He doesn't rise from the bed, but does sit up, reaching over to pick up the discarded violin case. He opens it, running his fingers over the wires. He thinks of the garrote back in San Salvador. Strangely similar wire. He wonders if he picked the wire for the murder because it was so familiar. It's entirely possible.  
  
"Mycroft will notice, of course."

 

She dips the strawberry into the bowl of whipped cream and takes a bite as she considers, her eyes drawn back to his long fingers against the violin. The gesture might have reminded anyone else of the way those same fingers had run along her body just minutes ago, but Irene is reminded of the night in Baker Street, where a single plucked note had roused the word "Coventry" from him.  
  
"Good. What better place for him to notice than somewhere incredibly busy and full of international tourists? Right against an international border too." She smirks, turning back to him. "Let him spend a few days sifting through camera footage and expecting us to have crossed the border to make it to Perth."

 

He smiles, plucking at the strings carefully. The Woman bites into the strawberry and he thinks the act is not at all unsensual. The Woman with her sensuality, him with his practicality. And yet, they fit.  
  
"Tuned, too," he says, sounding impressed. "Seems they haven't missed anything."  
  
The callouses that used to line his fingers have faded, but the muscle memory involved in playing hasn't. Ignoring his nudity, he lifts the violin to his chin and runs the bow across the length of it.  
  
"I'll book us tickets under the name Norton," he says. He starts to play, something simple involving long, drawn notes.

 

"Hm, not afraid of being too obvious using that alias again?"  
  
She wonders briefly if he would have played if she had asked. But then that would have begged the question of whether she _would_ have asked. Still, he plays and she is willing to admit that the violin's plaintive notes are not unpleasant.  
  
But as he is more himself with the bow between his fingers, she finishes up the bite of fruit, dabs her fingers on a napkin, and begins to collect the hairpins that have fallen to the bed and to twist her hair back into place.   
  
"Are you surprised? I think we impressed on him exactly how much he would have disliked not following our requests."

 

Almost involuntarily, the music changes to a piece he wrote nearly two years earlier, the first time he thought she was dead. A rising and falling of notes, very like a heartbeat. It is, in his mind, a representation of the sentiment he wasn't able to express then.  
  
"Possibly," he admits out of the corner of his mouth, keeping his chin against the violin.  
  
She is right, of course. Norton would be too obvious, Mycroft would know they were using it in order to attract his attention. He decides to book tickets to Norway under Norton, to see if he'll suspect _that_ is the ploy.  
  
He stops playing for a moment as she moves to twist her hair back up. "I like it down," he says. It's not a request for her to leave her hair down, mind. It's simply a statement of fact. He resumes playing.

 

His playing changes, and 'plaintive' is no longer the word that fits. There is something almost familiar about the music now, and it makes her hands pause in the familiar motions of putting her hair up, of containing the long loose locks, of becoming more _herself_. But at his matter-of-fact statement that still nonetheless admitted a _preference_ , she smiles, and continues what she had been doing.   
  
"And I like it up."   
  
Though this time, she uses far fewer pins to secure it. It is controlled, as she refuses to be anything else, but there is an implicit challenge in both her words and the arrangement. That if he liked it down, he'd have to try an undo her again.  
  
Not that that has been a hardship, not of late.  
  
She tilts her head towards him as she finishes, and simply _listens_ to the music he is drawing out from the instrument.   
  
"I don't recognize that piece."

 

"I composed it some time ago," he admits. "Helps me to think."  
  
Her hair is good like that as well, he decides. Somewhere in between who she was, with the tightly-held hair pins, and who she has been, hair loose and wild in her various personas. He wonders if that is what relationships are like for ordinary people. Compromise and change and the in-between. This, he thinks, is the closest they will come to the ordinary relationship. Both nude in a luxury hotel room in Montreal, plotting deceiving the British Government while he plays the violin.

 

"I like it."  
  
Her attention turns back to the problem at hand. It would be no problem at all to leave Montreal, to get the car in question simply drive away, to somewhere busy near the border. Toronto or... That particular piece of the puzzle falls into place as she realizes exactly where they could both confound the elder Holmes and to confront Moran.  
  
Her smile grows, and Irene catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, pale and wounded but still herself, though the smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth looks almost like a lash mark in the warm diffuse light.  
  
She laughs. "Forget the next list. I think I may have a better way to introduce our mutual friends."

 

He feels a swell of something he assumes is probably pride bubble up in his chest at her words. The piece, written for her. Not that he'd ever tell her, of course. Her ego, like his, is already too much of a force to be reckoned with.  
  
"Oh?" he says, glancing over to the mirror as though he might see what she does.

 

There is something about his reaction to her comment about the piece that Irene is not certain the rationale behind, but that can wait, now that the pieces are falling into place.  
  
There is obvious pleasure in the way she moves now, an anticipatory tension in her step as she approaches the mirror and begins to dab away the smudged lipstick. "He took especial care with the violin," she muses. "Your brother's man knows which one of us he's meant to placate. I expect that includes orders to ensure your personal safety."  
  
A glance over her shoulder. "Against dangerous women, and no doubt any associates of theirs. Assassins, thieves, and the like."

 

"Yes," he agrees. "Your personal safety I imagine is somewhat secondary. Or further, depending on Mycroft's annoyance at your resistance to his offer."  
  
Tumblers in his mind click into place with how she's dabbing at her lips. A slow smile creeps across his face. If the Woman were to hire an assassin---perhaps one working out of this building...  
  
"How would we rationalize your sudden change of heart?" he asks.

 

She catches his eye in the mirror as the knowledge dawns on him, and her own smile grows, her eyes all but sparkling with wickedness. "Why rationalize? A row would do nicely." They had, after all, managed that spectacularly in Las Vegas. "Perhaps you doubt my intentions. Perhaps violence."  
  
Satisfied, she turns away from the mirror to face him. "I'm vindictive, after all."

 

"Vicious," he agrees. He places down the violin and stands, stepping over to her.  
  
"There's a cafe near the train station. No CCTV cameras pointed at it. Good place to meet afterwards."

 

"Flatterer," she murmurs, eyeing him as he nears. She nods at the mention of the cafe. "I'll take the car the valet has ready, switch it out for something different at the airport and meet you there."  
  
That would be another diversionary tactic, she thinks. Another bit of misdirection to send the British government tracking down potential flights out of Montreal for a woman matching her description and potential trains out of Quebec for a man matching his. Between that and Gregory's murder by the well-intentioned spy, she expects they'd be able to make it quite far without being spotted.  
  
"The question remains, Mr. Holmes. What _exactly_ will you think I've done to betray you?"

 

He considers this. "It's less what would actually affect me and more what _he_ would expect."  
  
Sherlock's own threshold for emotions was relatively high, in his opinion, and he was less likely to cause a scene while still certain someone was betraying him. He tried to think of what it would take to cause a scene and nothing came to mind. Well, nothing that the spy out there wouldn't have been able to determine was a lie. Ah, but one thing that wouldn't be true and did bubble at the back of Sherlock's mind when he first saw her again returned.  
  
"I could believe that you were working with Mycroft," he says.

 

A look of reflexive disgust at the very thought crosses Irene's face, but as she turns the idea around in her mind, the disgust fades to thoughtfulness. "Given how well your brother took to my telling him to get out, that might play precisely to his sense of irony that he wouldn't question it," she muses.  
  
She is about to suggest something else when she catches sight of him in the mirror again and frowns. "When was the last time you'd slept?"

 

He pauses, looking at himself in the mirror and considering this.  
  
"What day is it?" he inquires.

 

That actually tells her more than anything, but she doesn't say so, instead simply arching an eyebrow.   
  
"Tuesday."

 

He nods, slowly and lets out a slow, annoyed-sounding sigh.  
  
"I should sleep."

 

She steps back, brushing against him momentarily, and nods towards the bed, its sheets tangled but not as badly mussed as they otherwise could have been.   
  
There's something almost gentle in her voice when she answers. "Go. I expect Mycroft's man will be even worse for wear by then."

 

He nods and steps over to the bed. He replaces the violin on the cart.  
  
"Don't forget to order the salt," he says. "I have an idea with that."  
  
He lays down and looks over to her, his gaze suddenly sleepy and more than a little sentimental.  
  
"I don't love you," he says. Because that is what they say.

 

The question is on the tip of her tongue to ask what the salt was for, but he speaks again and instead of asking she simply shakes her head and heads for the washroom and the promise of a warm shower.   
  
She pauses at the doorway and looks back at him, and the dominatrix's untouchability wavers, her normally buried vulnerability peeping through. She answers in her own way. "Good night, Mr Holmes."

 

By the time Irene emerges, hair damp and skin flushed from the shower, Sherlock Holmes is, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. She is grateful for the relative silence of the hotel room then, it gives her time to think, time to consider things and write up another list of demands (including the car headlight and boxes of salt he'd insisted upon and, for her own perverse entertainment at rubbing salt into Mycroft Holmes' metaphorical wounds, a book of baby names).  
  
The fact that she'd had four days in the hospital to think does not change the fact that Irene found the hotel room far more conducive to making plans. That the silence punctuated occasionally by the sound of an air conditioning unit and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the man in the bed, feels far safer, far more comfortable, than the hospital had.  
  
Eventually, she set her thoughts away and stretches out on the sleek leather couch, a bathrobe covering her. It takes very little time after that to fall asleep.


	9. The Greyest Perfect Plume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While sleep cures a multitude of ills, when day breaks, the problem of Mycroft Holmes remains. But reunited and of one mind about the elder Holmes' meddling, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes may be able to dodge the shadow of the British Government still...

Six hours or so later, of course, it is a completely different story as Irene limps across the length of the room, growing continually more irritated at her body's rebellion. It was, perhaps, utterly predictable that a trans-Atlantic flight, coupled with strenuous physical activity, and a night spent on a narrow but very expensive couch, would cause the muscles of her injured leg to stiffen and refuse to cooperate in response. But Irene Adler is hardly one to acquiesce to something as mundane as her body's weaknesses.   
  
Which explains why morning finds her sitting/leaning against the arm of the couch in question, cursing under her breath as she attempted to roll a stocking up her leg. She twists her body, and the motion causes muscular protest and her hand flies out to steady herself, in the process knocking over a half-empty glass that had been sitting at her elbow.  
  
She curses again.

 

It's the cursing that wakes him, eventually, moreso than the sound of a glass hitting the carpet.  
  
He raises an eyebrow, eyes still closed. The Woman is struggling with clothing. Sounds are obvious. The soreness of the muscles of his legs coupled with the slightly dry taste in his mouth from the liquor the night before confirm that he was far from hallucinating the night before. Good. He rather enjoyed the night before, and the promise of today, which should be quite interesting. Interesting and diverting in a way that only the Woman and her schemes can achieve.  
  
He opens his eyes and watches the Woman struggle with the stocking. Cramping, obvious.  
  
"I could have easily taken the couch," he says.

 

She looks up sharply at the sound of his voice, and her hands still in their struggle to pull on the stocking. She's half-dressed, undergarments precisely where they belonged, her dress (freshly pressed courtesy of the frightened and sleepless bellhop) hanging in front of the closet. Her hair, on the other hand, remains loose and idly curling down her back, a strand falling in front of her face. She pushes it back as she straightens, trying to keep from wincing as even that movement pulls at protesting muscles.  
  
Despite her best efforts to sound unaffected and removed, irritation lingers in her voice, at her own physical limitations, at being caught at them, perhaps both.   
  
"I hadn't planned on sleeping."

 

"A lesser man might be smug in this moment," he says. He looks around the room, trying to determine exactly what's gone on when he's been asleep. The Woman is never inactive while he's sleeping, and occasionally he finds it is as though he has a puzzle to work out---the question of what occurred while he was dead to the world.  
  
He sees the outfit he'd been wearing, freshly cleaned and hanging on the door to the bathroom. He sees her hair in long curls, clearly washed before she slept. He sees the box of coarse sea salt as well as a book of Most Popular Baby Names. He narrows his eyes at the last, and determines that the choice was only to cause a fright for Mycroft.  
  
He sits up.  
  
"Would you like some assistance?"

 

"And here I thought you were always smugly secure in your intellectual superiority," she answers, a smirk tugging at her lips as she catches him eying the book of baby names. A smirk which immediately fades to irritation when he offers assistance.  
  
"I can manage." Eventually. Probably. Possibly. Perhaps.

 

"Of course."  
  
He stands and steps over to his own clothing, which he puts on easily despite the slight twinge left in his shoulder. She's probably right, at this rate he'll never heal. However, for the two of them, _stopping_ isn't at all possible. There's too much for them to do, and like a city pond, stagnation will only breed flies buzzing around. They don't want to have Moriarty's people or Mycroft's appearing while they're healing.  
  
"While brassieres are a new piece of technology for me," he says, both by way of making conversation and to give her some reason to trust him on the matter. "I am adept at hosiery."

 

She's abandoned the wounded side for the moment, instead carefully sliding a stocking onto her unwounded leg, as if to prove that she was, in fact, utterly capable of putting on her own clothing, thank you very much. That still, however, was slow going, with distribution of weight and the insistent pull of muscles.   
  
She pauses, her fingertips still on the thin silky nylon, curiosity creeping across her face. "Trying to goad me into demanding a demonstration, Mr. Holmes?"

 

"An accusation of manipulation," he says. "Clearly you're starting our argument early."  
  
He buttons up the shirt, leaving the top two undone. He feels more himself now than he has in over a week. It's like a tightly wound coil in his stomach has loosened and he can relax. He steps over to the box of sea salt and passes it from one hand to the next.  
  
"But in case you're curious, I learned for a case."

 

"It's only an accusation if I'm guessing," she retorts as she watches him. Her hands remain still, and a smirk curves her lips. The stockings are, for the moment, less important than the conversation. Her gaze sweeps pointedly along him, lingering on his fingers.  
  
"And I don't guess."

 

"The choice is yours in this case, Woman," he says, offering her an equal smirk. "Curiosity or pride."  
  
He flexes his fingers, just slightly, as someone who is aware of being watched might change their body position to face their better side. He refuses to perform, mind.

 

For a moment, she does nothing, wordlessly holding his gaze. His smirk shows that he knows as well as she does that pride is, at this particular moment, rather superficial; she has, after all, already been caught as momentarily incapacitated, at least in this small thing. Curiosity, well... that was hardly superficial at all.  
  
It rarely was, with him.  
  
A flicker of irritation is the only hint she gives that she recognizes that he's outmaneuvered her, but despite that, she raises her chin, cool and regal and imperious, designed to irritate him as she gestures towards her legs.  
  
"Well then, I think I'll be the judge of whether or not you're _actually_ adept."

 

He puts down the salt and steps over to her. Inwardly, he appreciates that she didn't order him to assist. It would have made things more difficult, because he's winning right now, and if she orders him, then he has to decline simply to be himself. She's much the same way, and he imagines that's partially the reason she's not ordering, only accepting.  
  
He positions himself in front of her and reaches out his hands to her thigh, to lift the stocking up where it belongs. He moves the clip from the garter down to hook against the lace at the top.  
  
"I'm surprised you doubt me," he says.

 

It surprises her, how intimate the simple touch feels. But then, perhaps, it shouldn't be surprising, that while she indulged Kate in the simple domestic rituals of dressing and being dressed, it had been a long time since Kate.  
  
But that is sentimental in a way she would much prefer _not_ being sentimental at the moment and so Irene pushes the thought away, steadies her breathing, and keeps her attention on the way his fingers work the clip over the lace-edged stocking, steady, knowing.   
  
"I'm surprised you had any need to learn," she corrects.

 

"I spent two weeks as the potential wife of a multimillionaire," he says, simply, clipping the inside of the stocking and letting his fingers stray across her skin. He can remember exactly where his lips had pressed on the inside of her thigh, and he finds himself distracted by the memory.  
  
It's not so much that he's surprised that sex is an enticing act. After all, so many crimes are committed for sex, so many motives revolve around wanting it. He's just surprised by how _diverting_ intimacy with the Woman has been over the last few months together. It isn't lovemaking, it's a game of chess that the two of them play. Or, as he considers the book of baby names, perhaps it is a game of roulette. He should replenish the condoms he left in San Salvador.  
  
"I didn't know any women I could trust in the role."

 

It is far more difficult to ignore the intimacy of touch when his fingers continue to stray across her skin, when the play of his hand along her thigh brings to mind the same paths his hands and his lips had traced the night before. Her breath hitches again, and she sets her hand on his, stilling the idle motion of his fingers against her leg.  
  
It helps, a little, to remind her they cannot afford to be _too_ distracted. That intimacy and sentiment had had its moment the night before in the realization that, once again, neither of them were dead. "Hm," there is a distinct edge of warm pleasure in her voice, lingering from the touch of his thumb against the lace edge of the stocking. She tries to swallow it back again. "I hope you were more convincing than you were as a priest."

 

"I was propositioned twice," he says. "I assume that gives some idea of how well I performed."  
  
She stops the motion of his fingers and he looks up, remembering the coat closet back in Kotor, and her words about how he looked on his knees. The pleasure in her voice is obvious, but her hand speaks of a desire to stop, or wait. Distractions, diversions. They did need to focus.  
  
"We'll want to make certain you're walking infrequently," he says, moving his hand to her other thigh, to the other set of garter braces.

 

She doesn't stop him from moving his hand to her other leg; after all, both her stockings needed to be done up, and he was, at the moment, far more efficient at it than she was. Never mind that Irene had to admit she enjoyed seeing him on his knees.  
  
"I'd say it was infrequent movement that ended in my current predicament," she retorts. She reaches over, and flips a lock of sleep-tousled hair out of his face. "Though I'm starting to wonder whether you're trying to get me back on my feet or the opposite."

 

The jolt of lust that goes through him is entirely inappropriate, he decides, but he can't find himself caring that much. Twenty-four hours ago, a conversation like this would've had to be invented (and that would've been a waste of time), and feelings of lust would've been reserved for crime scenes.  
  
She moves a lock of hair from his face, he turns his head slightly to press his lips to her palm.  
  
"What would you prefer?"

 

His lips against the sensitive skin of her palm makes Irene reconsider the idea. That perhaps they had time enough to wait on their deception, that really, H. Gregory in room 301 can live for another hour or two before they completed their business in Montreal... But it feels distinctly like she would be losing if she gives in now, and instead she slips her hand back into his hair, sliding her grip to the back of his head and leaning in close despite the momentary twinge it causes.  
  
She brings her lips close to his, and it takes every ounce of control for her not to completely close the small distance. Her voice is low and throaty as she murmurs, "I can wait until we've left Montreal. Not sure about you though."

 

He looks down to her mouth as she moves towards him, and raises an eyebrow at her words.  
  
"That's _obvious_ , Woman," he says, in regards to the blatant manipulation. It will, of course, _work_ , since he can't be the one to give in, to _lose_ to the Woman in this case. Oh, but he does want to.  
  
Still close to her, eyes still on her lips, he fastens the garter to the stocking.  
  
"Ready."

 

She wonders briefly if he realizes the blatant manipulation is as much for her as it is for him, the need to remember that this tension between them is a temporary holiday. But his gaze never quite leaves her lips, and that is some gratification, some sign that he is as affected as she is.  
  
Her fingers run across the knuckles of his hand as he fastens the last garter to her stocking, and Irene lets go, the hand at the back of his head sliding down his shoulder, his arm, then back to her side, to lever herself up from her seat on the sofa's arm. "One more crucial detail, before we're ready," she corrects, adjusting the garter strap to sit more comfortably against her skin. "And I'd say that was nearly adept."

 

He scoffs. " _Nearly._ "  
  
He looks around the room and picks up one of the bowls, this one full of caramel sauce.  
  
"Evidence of an argument?" he suggests. He tosses the bowl at the door and it causes a satisfying noise as it spills coagulated sauce on the expensive veneer.

 

She bites back a laugh, knowing that the crash of the bowl against the door will bring the bellhop running. "I was thinking a more physical one," she says, keeping her voice low. She considers him, then nods, gesturing to the left side of her face, near the jaw.   
  
"A backhand should do nicely, especially if you can manage to split my lip."

 

He nods, but his face scrunches up with awkwardness.  
  
"This must be what John felt when I told him I wanted him to hit me," he says. "Grip the couch, I don't want you falling and breaking open the sutures."

 

"You'll have to tell me later how you managed it," she says. In Irene's mind, there is sentiment, and there is necessity, and as far as she was concerned, the two could be very much mutually exclusive.   
  
Though, at the moment, she had to admit she enjoyed the expression of discomfort on his face. She grips the sofa's back and nods, bracing herself. "Ready."

 

"I provoked him," he says, simply. "Something like this."  
  
He swings, backhanding her across the cheek. He had aimed for her mouth, but the twinge in his shoulder threw it. She has a red mark, but it's hardly enough. He doesn't wait for any uncomfortable nerves to kick in, he throws another slap, this one slightly harder. Success. Her lip splits, splattering blood across her teeth.  
  
He raises his voice. "You don't think I know what's been going on?"

 

She's braced for the first, but the second blow is unexpected, and throws her for a moment. She blinks, quickly reorienting herself, and the taste of blood in her mouth indicates the second managed where the first failed. She probes her cheek quickly, smearing the blood at her lip a bit for better effect, and smiles, obviously pleased.  
  
"If you knew what was going on, you wouldn't even be asking!" she shouts back, the gleam in her eyes utterly at odds with the feigned anger in her words. She stalks to the other side of the couch for effect, and roughly pulls on the pressed dress, allowing the natural wrinkles to speak to her haste, not that the bellhop would notice. "Don't you ever tire of being wrong?"

 

"I don't know where you think you're going, but if you're just leaving to tell _him_ more information about me---" he shouts in return. He looks at the mirror and adjusts his hair, his demeanor cool and collected despite the rage in his voice. Were Mycroft outside, he'd have heard the difference instantly. The bellhop won't.  
  
He grabs another plate off of the tray and throws it at a wall. It smashes spectacularly.  
  
"Next time you're going to die, I think we should remove all chances of you faking it, _again!_ "

 

A harsh, scornful laugh, as Irene slips the irritable flats back on, the dress half-zipped in its apparent haste. She picks up a glass from the cart and sends it smashing into the headboard before passing him and heading for the door, schooling her expression into one of cold, determined anger.   
  
"Do!" she challenges. She is at the door when she reaches back, her fingers tangling with his for a brief second, and she lets go again, flinging the door wide. "Then let your damnable _brother_ fish you out of a cloud of bourbon! I am _done_ with the lot of you, the Holmes boys and their egos."  
  
She sees the bellhop, Mycroft's man, doing an absurdly poor job peering from around the corner, and slams the door shut behind her, heading for the elevator, to room 301.

 

The door slams, and Sherlock pulls it open roughly. He doesn't follow her, but he does give the bellhop a view of his disheveled appearance, as well as the mess of the room.  
  
He opens his mouth as if to shout, and then steps back inside, grabbing the bottle of bourbon before slamming the door. Once the door is shut, he places the alcohol onto the side table and gingerly steps around the glass on the floor. He picks up his shoes. Shame, he imagines he could've worn them around Mycroft's man. He'd have missed the subtleties.  
  
The Woman's done her job, now it's his turn to make a grand exit.

 

She hears the sound of the door slam, again, as she steps into the lift, and when the lift doors close, leaving her alone again, Irene indulges in a brief, fierce smile. The glimpse of terror on the bellhop's face at her exit had been enough, and she was certain she knew his precise train of thought.  
  
The obvious one was to report to his superiors that they'd had a falling out, but given how thoroughly he'd botched his surveillance, no doubt he was desperately seeking redemption. Which logically meant following her, to gather more information.  
  
She was, after all, the one who'd stormed out, the loose end.   
  
The lift chimes as it approaches the third floor, and Irene smooths her expression back to angry determination. She stops at the courtesy desk in the hall to write a note in sharp, angular letters rather than her own flowing hand. `You know what to do. Your usual fee is waiting. -M`  
  
She pauses, then adds the banker's safety deposit box number in San Salvador.  
  
The time gives her just enough time to hear the sound of clomping hurried footsteps down the stairwell; that'd be Mycroft's man. She times her steps so that he can see that she leaves the note on door 301, and turns away just in time to catch his eye with a fierce, cold smile.  
  
"Have the valet bring the car around," she demands. Mycroft's spy swallows hard, his gaze caught between the note on the door and Irene's bloodied lip. " _Now._ "  
  
He jumps, swallows hard, and nods, all but running away, and Irene swallows back a laugh and a sense of bone-deep satisfaction. Alone again, she glances back at the door before heading for the lift again. The cryptic note with its unfamiliar handwriting should be enough to make the assassins' master wary, wary enough that Mycroft's spy would interpret it as purposely evasive.   
  
The fuse had been lit and a little part of her wishes she could watch the resultant explosion.  
  
But other plans were waiting, and she headed back downstairs. The car, the airport, and the cafe awaited.

 

Sherlock's exit is dramatically more physical. He rubs his shoulder and remembers the Woman's words from the previous evening. It won't heal at this rate, and she's right. He pulls open the window and looks outwards.  
  
The fire escape is one balcony over. No cameras, luckily, and the street is fairly quiet. He grabs his bag. He hesitates over the violin. Logic tells him to leave it. It's an extra bulk, it will make him more noticeable in a crowd. All the same, he misses it. Misses how very like himself he feels when he plays. The silence in his mind is refreshing.  
  
He leaves the violin and climbs out onto the balcony. Taking a breath, he leaps to the next one over and then heads for the fire escape. It's not a short trip to the train station.


	10. Only Time Will Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Irene's plan to slip the British Government's noose includes a master of assassins and a sniper. Will they be able to pull it off, or will the secrets they keep come between them?

It is about an hour, give or take, before a slim, androgynous youth walks into the cafe with a backpack. His hair is a familiar ginger and curls, falling into his eyes. Grey eyes currently fixed on a tourist's handbook to Canada as he drops, loose-limbed, into a seat at the back of the cafe. His backpack is half-empty, and left on the seat across from him.  
  
Irene orders a pair of lattes to go as she settles into the chair, propping her now denim clad legs onto the opposite seat as she slouches, her face half-obscured by the false ginger curls and the book.

 

It isn't long before a tall woman in sensible heels follows. She has short dark hair that's pinned back, and her face is accented with just a touch of makeup. Her outfit is feminine but professional with business trousers, and she walks confidently over to the table. Her eyes are locked to her phone as she picks up the latte.  
  
Sherlock's voice is exactly one octave higher when he speaks. Not enough to be a falsetto, but more feminine than his normal tone.  
  
"Took you long enough," he says.

 

She nearly drops the book when he speaks.  
  
Irene recovers nearly immediately, but there is no hiding the moment of obvious surprise, the widening of her eyes, the momentarily dropped jaw that she snaps back up almost immediately. She takes a sip from her own latte, the gesture hiding her wide smile and the faint smear of blood from her split lip.   
  
"I had some things to take care of," she answers, her eyes sweeping over his disguise with obvious relish. "I could have said the same about you."

 

He has seen detectives overplay the female role. Women, in general, do not overstate their makeup or hair, he has noticed. The Woman is an example of this, she wears a touch of color on her eyes and a burst of red on her lips. With his masculine facial features, overdoing it would bring too much attention to himself. The outfit and the gait say feminine. It's enough. Her look makes his ego swell. The Woman's androgynous male disguise suits her perfectly. Masculine without being outstanding, and it works well with her body shape.  
  
"I had a few things to attend to," he says, flipping through the information on his mobile. "Did you acquire the car?"

 

She sets the coffee cup down and turns another page in the guidebook before reaching into her pocket and taking out a set of keys. Not a rental, not with the wear on the key ring and the various things attached to it. She tosses them at him before rising to her feet.  
  
"Guess which one."

 

He runs his hands over the keys and pauses on the largest of the two car keys. Too obvious. He turns the ring over and holds up the slim silver key.  
  
"Our bellhop's?" he inquires.

 

She reaches across him to pick up the half-empty backpack, the motion putting a small but deliberate distance between them, between their disguises.  
  
"Not even close," she says smugly, dropping the guidebook into the pack on top of the expensive flats and the dress she'd worn to the hotel.

 

He scowls. He turns the keys over in his hands again. Not that car key, but the other is too obvious. Which could it be? His fingers run over the red, slightly gummy texture on one of the house keys. He flashes back, remembering his walk here, the pinch of the heels and the look flashed his way by a gum-chewing car-park attendant. He had a tic that made him pick at his lower teeth. Candy to fingertips to keys. The gum is old, and the attendant has clearly been at this profession for a while.  
  
"Long-term car-park," he says, holding the keys out on his index finger for her.

 

A flash of a smirk as she shoulders the backpack, the gesture precisely, subtly, studiedly masculine in the set of the shoulders, spine. She plucks the keys from his hand and nods towards the door to the cafe.   
"So the heels aren't distracting you," she murmurs, her voice quiet enough to ensure her words don't make it farther than the space between them.   
  
She nods towards the door, slipping back into the drawling cadence her carefully careless disguise favours. "Trust me to drive your prized possession now?" she asks.

 

He sighs and rolls his eyes. Ever the businesswoman with the immature traveling boyfriend.  
  
"Fine," he says, rolling his eyes. Mycroft would, no doubt, eventually see footage of the two of them. Sherlock certainly hoped so. Sherlock and the Woman, working together far more efficiently than the Holmes brothers ever did.  
  
"Just don't _stall_ this time," he adds.

 

A self-assured scoff at that, and she heads for the door, ignoring the cafe owner's half-hearted goodbye. The parking lot is half-full, but Irene makes immediately for a sleek silver German convertible. Luxurious, but not enough to be immediately memorable. The keyless entry raises the boot, and she carelessly slings in the backpack beside a small black duffel before easing into the driver's seat.  
  
"Why not? Watching you try not to be sick over my driving was fun."  
  
Still, the car _was_ an automatic.

 

He opens the back door and tosses in his handbag, which contains all of the contents of his backpack, including the box of salt, shoes, and a change of clothing. He slips into the passenger side, lifting his legs to avoid scuffing the heels.  
  
"Fun, yes, but I don't want a scratch on her."  
  
He turns his head and smirks madly at the Woman.  
  
 _This_ was what the holiday was about. Walking through the world of the ordinary people, playing their games.

 

She starts the engine, but waits until the doors to the car are firmly shut before turning to him and pressing a hard kiss to his smirking lips, all exhilaration and the same delighted exuberance she had not bothered to completely hide upon seeing his disguise.   
  
She doesn't let him respond before she begins to back out of the parking lot. "Are you going to tell me if you've got the stockings to match the shoes or will I have to find out for myself?"

 

He's a little surprised by the kiss, but playing the older woman dating a young and exuberant man would make that response one that is expected. He sighs, and flips down the visor to look at his makeup.  
  
"I'll have to disappoint you, Woman," he says, dropping the raise to his voice but not the persona in how he checks his lipstick. "I decided against shaving my legs for this disguise. Stockings would have been a mistake."  
  
Though he'd never admit to the fact that he _had_ thought about it.

 

She laughs, easing the car up to speed as she guides it towards the highway. The car _is_ luxurious, and the way it handles makes it obvious that whoever the owner was, they kept it well-maintained. "Mmm, perhaps," she answers, her voice entirely her own again. She runs a hand through the false ginger curls, brushing them out of her eyes. "But I would have been impressed by your dedication."  
  
As it was, she is just inordinately pleased, but given that their plan had likely succeeded, that they were slipping Mycroft Holmes' noose _and_ no doubt in the process making life irritably difficult for the British government, she thinks that is more than acceptable criteria for being pleased.

 

"Mmmm," he says. "I thought the long walk in these shoes was enough dedication for a lifetime. And certainly enough to throw off anyone who might've thought they were following me."  
  
He looks back down at his mobile. "Take 15. The easiest way to throw Mycroft off will be to spend half our time in one country and the other half in the other." He silently plots a travel scheme that should leave Mycroft frustrated enough to---  
  
But there's something Sherlock has been avoiding. It's not forgetting, not really. He knows, but he doesn't want to bring it up.  
  
"Where are you meeting Moran?"

 

There's a minute change in his voice before the question, and Irene takes her eyes off the road long enough to give him a sidelong look. With anyone else, she would have called the hesitance sentiment, but she reminds herself that he was not anyone else.  
  
"Niagara Falls. Why?"

 

"We'll want to make certain we switch cars before then," he says.  
  
He smirks. "And I need to put on more sensible footwear."

 

A nod, her attention back on the road. "Plenty of cars to choose from in Toronto," she answers. Another glance over at him, her lips quirking into a smile. "But I'd have chosen a different shade of lipstick."

 

"Ah, yes," he says. "But I wasn't playing a Woman to be noticed."  
  
She was right, though. The shade was just a bit too pink for his skin tone. Never matter, he'd remove it before they arrived in Toronto. On the chance they were being followed by Mycroft's men, he wanted to make certain they saw him as a woman, not as Sherlock Holmes.  
  
"I assumed the bellhop took to the bait well," he says.

 

"You wouldn't make it twenty feet in my heels," she agrees.  
  
There is little malice in her words; just the unseen, unspoken challenge that permeates everything between them. Still, the mention of the bellhop makes her laugh again, the sound a low purr of pleasure. "Oh yes, I expect your assassin's been dead at least half an hour by now."

 

"Oh, wouldn't I?" he replies. "Not that your heels are entirely practical. Or possible for you at the moment."  
  
The last is harsh, but he doesn't mean it harshly. He pulls the pins out of his hair, letting it fall more naturally around his face. No word about the shooting from what Sherlock has seen on his mobile, but Mycroft would, no doubt, have wanted to hush it up.  
  
"I imagine your dog would prefer not to have me close by," he says. "Though I'm not running the risk of him using another sniper rifle in your direction."

 

Her lips thin momentarily, fleeting annoyance at his pointing out her own still-healing wounds. It is instinct to disagree with him, to tell him that she could, in fact, still make it farther than he could, even in her state. But no doubt that was precisely what he would expect, and she hates to let him win.  
  
Instead, she scoffs. "Worried about me, Mr. Holmes? I'm flattered." A smirk. "But I expect he'd rather have you where he can see you, which seems to me the single best reason to keep you out of sight, at least until he's had a few minutes to wonder what's pointed at the back of his head."

 

Sherlock lets out a short laugh. The 'Mr. Holmes' shows her annoyance at him. Their intimacy allows him to begin to see patterns in her actions, to know her better. He wonders if she does the same for him (he immediately decides that yes, she does. He can be so _obvious_ at times.)  
  
"Yes, well, you're significantly better company," he says. "Few can keep up." Even fewer are worth spending time with them even if they keep up.  
  
She's right, though. He should stay aside, wait for Moran to emerge.  
  
"He's a sniper," he says. "He's patient. He'll no doubt beat us there by a number of hours."

 

Her smile grows at his response, not simply at his agreement about Moran, or even the pleasure of watching a plan come together, but at the lack of his automatic denial. The admission itself lingers in the back of her mind, but there _are_ other things to think about.   
  
More interesting things that may at some point provoke her to pull over and drag him by the hair into the back seat. But things that were pressing, like planning exactly how best to provoke Moran to fear but not defensiveness, to make him malleable.   
  
She gives him a sidelong look again, eyes bright and pupils ever-so-slightly dilated. "Let him wait," she answers. "Let him get nervous about exactly what's going to happen. Expect he'll hear about the assassin at the hotel. He'll think you're coming for him next. Might make him more prone to listening to reason."

 

"He won't be easily scared off," he says. "But I don't want him becoming insulted by you. Making him wait. He's dangerous, Woman, and he knows how to track. Even when no one else knows. Probably why Jim kept him around."  
  
He'd be an excellent asset to the Woman's web, so long as she could gain his loyalty. And Sherlock wanted at least one crack at punching him. At least once.

 

"I don't want to scare him off," she answers, rolling her eyes at the car ahead. When it didn't speed up, she jerked the wheel and passed it sharply. "I want him to realize he doesn't have Jim's network, his support, and he can't hope to find another one on his own."   
  
She smiles; the traces of blood on her lip darkening the expression, sharpening what was already a razor's edge smile. "That the choice is either he wears my leash or watch as you and I tear down every brick of Moriarty's house around his ears."

 

"I think you know which I'd prefer," he replies, easily. He tugs off the clip-on earrings and deposits them into the ashtray.  
  
The car jerks as she passes, and he realizes he really doesn't like not driving. He grips the side of the window and then forces himself to relax his hand.  
  
"Not a frequent driver, I take it."

 

His hand is at the edge of her field of vision, and the motion of it gripping the window catches her attention. "I preferred having a driver."   
  
The road ahead is relatively clear, the car she'd passed already several car lengths behind. She switches lanes again, this time pointedly smoother. "I'm starting to think it isn't the heights, Mr. Holmes. It's the lack of control that makes you nervous."

 

He doesn't bother denying it.  
  
"I think we both prefer to be in control."

 

She doesn't bother denying it.  
  
"Obvious. But I'm the one in the driver's seat."  
  
She isn't gloating. Not at all.  
  
Maybe a little.

 

"Next car, I'm picking out a standard," he grumbles, and then he reaches back to fish the cigarettes out of his purse.  
  
"After Niagara Falls, this venture will involve a lot of driving," he adds.

 

"Then you'll have to live with being carsick," she answers blithely. "I'd suggest the backseat, then."

 

"I imagine, at this point, I could easily beat you in a foot-race to the driver's seat," he says, smirking. "Even in high heels."

 

"I could always ensure wherever we end up next requires a two story climb," she retorts. Her answer is tart, but there is an unmistakeable sense of relaxation, of a lack of tension, in her posture.  
  
She coaxes more acceleration out of the car, and it is obvious that she is, in fact, enjoying herself immensely.

 

She relaxes, he tenses. He can only think that under the right circumstances, that injury to her thigh could be seriously detrimental to the state of their health.  
  
"I have two weeks' worth of healing on you," he says, voice just a shade sharp. He blames the situation, not his hurt ego. He certainly _can't_ climb up any sort of ladder right now, and he's very aware of that.

 

"Only one of those weeks count," she retorts, "given how difficult it was to get you to get proper treatment in the first place." She is, she realizes, at a disadvantage; her difficulties with her own stockings this morning had been a painfully obvious reminder of that.

 

" _Watch the road,_ " he says, voice one octave higher. Not out of nervousness, he tells himself. Just concern.  
  
He is never letting her drive again.  
  
"And the amount of healing my body was able to do does still count," he says. "Despite any mild ramifications from the unsanitary conditions."

 

She deliberately takes her eyes off the road for a second, glancing over at him, before returning her attention to the highway. "You were a far worse driver in Las Vegas. Don't make me consider drugging you for the rest of the trip."

 

"At this point, that may not do any good," he says.  
  
She looked his way on purpose. He can tell, it's in that smug look in her eyes. Her viciousness is enough to make him suddenly rather aroused, which feels more than a little awkward in a woman's set of trousers.  
  
His phone beeps. He looks down at it, at the strange text message that appears. Without a word, he lowers the window and tosses the mobile out.

 

Another sidelong look, and this time she deliberately speeds up just a little, until she takes her eyes off him again and eases back on the accelerator.   
  
"Let me guess, the good Mr. Holmes?" she asks. There is a subtle difference in the way she forms the words, a disdain in her voice when referring to Mycroft Holmes that never creeps into her voice when she called him by the same name.

 

Sherlock doesn't reply, he just lets out a derisive snort. Mycroft's influence is vast and wide, and he has no doubt that the Woman has begun to see the pattern in his obsessive nature regarding his younger brother. Sherlock was quite content with Mycroft thinking him dead, and _leaving him alone_. Now, Mycroft appears everywhere, following them and calculating their next moves. He doubts the Woman needs an affirmation to believe she's right.  
  
Giving her that affirmation might reveal that it's a lie.  
  
"You do realize that, at this speed, you're more likely to attract the attention of the Canadian police," he says.

 

The derisive snort is all she needs to confirm her assumption; there being, after all, little reason to believe otherwise, given what they had just left.   
  
"Well, if I do, perhaps you'll just have to flirt our way out of their attentions," she answers with a smirk. "I'm hardly dressed for the part."

 

Sherlock's voice goes up to the higher, feminine octave. "But I've just undone my hair."  
  
A pause. "Oh, can I borrow your phone? We can see if there's a train to take us part of the way, might be a better option to keep the British Government off our backs for part of the ride."

 

A twitch of her lips, threatening to mar the knowing smirk with genuine mirth, real amusement at his disguise. Still, the amusement doesn't quite extend to the question. "Should have done that before yours went out the window. Isn't there a law against leaving that sort of rubbish on the road?" she asks.

 

"Would you have preferred to be tracked?" he asks. "We can always forward him your number---?"

 

"No, I think you want a look at my phone," she replies. A sidelong look and that same smirk. "Come now, was it that easy before?"

 

He lets out a laugh.  
  
"I have no interest in disrupting your plans with Moran," he says. "Only your plans to drive us across the country afterward." He eyes her under the mascara on his lashes. "You do sleep, Woman. I can wait."  
  
Not that he wouldn't love a moment to look at that phone. To at least know Moran's number, to be able to use it if he needed to. Sometimes he thinks she hoards her knowledge in the way that John Watson hoards friends and morals---she often doesn't know how valuable the things are when she clings to them.

 

"So do you. And I expect I've had at least five or six days worth on you," she counters. She'd done nothing but sleep for days in the hospital, thanks to the British government's liberal hand with sedatives. But then, waking up unexpectedly would no doubt have put a crimp in the government's plan to have her play dead again.  
  
She can already imagine how that would end, if he pushed. She might not disdain sleep the way he did, but she is as stubborn. She has no doubt that if he wanted to try, she'd wait him out. And there was always passwords to contend with, among other distractions.   
  
"If all you're really interested in is transportation afterward," she adds, "I expect there are plenty of mobiles in Toronto."

 

"Mmm," he agrees. "There are."  
  
Of course, they weren't the Woman's mobile. He doubts she'll be as liberal with her password as she was before. She knows not to enjoy herself too much.  
  
Only just enough.  
  
"Timing is going to be our only difficulty," he says. "After all, we have an assassin to deal with and a government to avoid. Don't want to have to worry about having a train to catch, as well."

 

No, her passwords would be far harder to guess, now. If passwords at all. She'd be interested to see him try to fool a biometric passcode. Something to remember, for later.  
  
"Not if we want to get anywhere interesting," she agrees. The smirk, all smug and knowing, does not fade from her lips as she reaches up to pull the short ginger wig from her head. Her hair, dark and tightly braided, is pinned in a neat, tight coil underneath.   
  
"I planned on meeting him tomorrow, noon. It's only six hours there, maybe less. Unless you disapprove of my speed."

 

"I simply want to _get there_ ," he says.

 

A low laugh and a sharp smile. "You didn't specify in how many pieces."

 

" _Woman,_ " he snaps, his voice sharp and warning. "We've both already had to put each other back together once this month."

 

Another sidelong look, and it is as if she sees something in his expression, hears something in his voice, that softens the razor edge of her smile and eases her foot on the accelerator.  
  
"You should stick to trying to talk your way into my mobile," she says lightly.

 

He's actually embarrassed by the relieved breath he takes as the car slows down. He doesn't fancy being out of control, and that appears to be the only thing he's been in the last few weeks. He reaches into his purse and acquires a pack of makeup remover wipes.  
  
"You're very insistent that I want your mobile," he says. "Is there something in there I'd be interested in?"

 

"That'd be telling," she admonishes him with a tsk. "Maybe there is, or maybe I just want you to think there is."  
  
She turns her attention back to the road for a while, letting meters tick by. "Which do you _deduce_ to be more likely?"

 

"Knowing you, Woman?" he says. "Either is entirely likely. More likely the latter, though, considering how frequently we've had to dispose of phones in recent weeks. I imagine important information will be saved for a more permanent location once things have...settled."  
  
Because despite how much the two of them don't like to stop swimming, once they separate there will be a sense of settling. Of a stronger control than they have right now.

 

She laughs, pleased, at his answer. Because it is true, and more compliment than deduction. "Perhaps, but somehow I expect you'd manage to put something together out of what little information I do leave behind on these phones." She shoots him a look that is equal parts challenge and invitation.   
  
" _If_ you managed to get it at all."  
  
She glances down at the speedometer. The trip would take nearly the full six hours, she expects, but at this rate she expects it would hardly be boring.

 

Sherlock isn't one for road trips in general. John has been an excellent companion for long rides, such as the one to Henry Knight's residence, but this, he imagines, will be different. To be in a space this small with someone as combustible as the Woman will be _exciting_ in its own right. More diverting.  
  
"What do you plan to offer him?" he asks. "Moran."

 

The question is unexpected, and Irene considers it carefully, rolling it around in her mind, scrutinizing it from every angle she can imagine, to see what her answer would give away.  
  
"You mean besides the firm hand he obviously misses and the direction he so sorely needs now that dear old Jim is dead?"

 

"You'll have to do better than that," Sherlock says. "He was obviously close to Jim. Wouldn't have reacted to our presence if he weren't. He might take the offer you give him as an insult."  
  
He's thought about this before, of course. The Woman's hand is firm, but Moran's instability makes him dangerous.  
  
"Have you considered he might take issue with a Woman in charge?"

 

She smirks at his question. She wonders idly if he realizes he almost sounds like he is fretting. "Of course. But then I think the knowledge that I currently own a near majority share on that casino you wanted to destroy in Las Vegas makes him more amenable, lest I choke his purse strings altogether."  
  
It was, after all, what she'd done while he'd been hospitalized in San Salvador. Millions in diamonds didn't just disappear into thin air, after all.

 

Sherlock's eyebrows jump at this. It isn't so much that he hadn't wondered what happened to the diamonds, it was just that everything else he'd assumed was clearly wrong. Very wrong.  
  
"I knew you were rather good," he says.

 

His surprise is obvious, even more so with the simple fact that he's shown said surprise so clearly. Irene laughs, the sound almost a velvet purr of pleasure, in response.   
  
"Better than you expected, I'd say," she preens, tossing the ginger wig into the backseat carelessly as she leans slowly on the accelerator. "You haven't figured out _all_ of my tricks, Mr. Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another year and another three installments of _Death Takes A Holiday_! Thank you for staying with us through this wild ride, and we hope you've forgiven us for our little trick at the end of the last installment and the beginning of this one. We hope you'll come back with us for the next installment beginning in January 2015! 
> 
> And for anyone interested, Lyra will once again be at [Sherlock Seattle](http://sherlock-seattle.org/) January 9-11, and would absolutely love to say hello!


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